


Thunder and Sparks In the Heart of the Dark

by nyxocity



Series: Rising Force Verse [1]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Marijuana, Rough Sex, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 78,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural/Sons of Anarchy crossover AU set post an almost-canon S5 of SPN. Still reeling from and haunted by the loss of Sam, Dean finds himself on a hunt in Charming, CA. Through circumstance, he finds himself allying with Jax Teller and the Sons of Anarchy motorcycle club. As the hunt continues and Jax and Dean get closer, they discover what’s happening in Charming is even bigger than anyone thought. The fate of the world may depend on their choices—and whether or not they both make it out of this alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that doesn’t diverge too far from either show’s canon. You don’t need to watch Sons of Anarchy to understand the characters. Also, SAMCRO stands for Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original. The Sons of Anarchy as a whole are sometimes referred to as ‘Sam Crow’.

Dean’s about to win the best two out of three, opposite a gigantic biker as he leans down across his pool stick. The green felt beneath his fingertips feels right, perfect, angle of the stick brushing against his chin as he lines up. 

“Eight ball, side pocket,” he calls, cue ball hitting the eight with a sharp snap.

The ball clatters into the pocket, and he rises, pulling the stick back from the table.

His gigantic opponent mutters something he can’t quite make out, and then tosses a couple twenties across the table.

Dean gives the guy a quick nod before he collects them. Another time, another place, he’d have gloated and smirked a little more, but here and now, he’s just glad for the cash against his palm.

The patches across the backs of the leather jackets on these guys name them _Sons of Anarchy, California_ , words wrapped around the picture of a grinning reaper. Dean would tell them reapers don’t look anything like the depiction on their leather—grinning skull face inside a robe, boney hands holding a scythe and a crystal ball—but he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t go over well.

“Good game,” the guy tells him, giving him a short nod.

He thinks the guy’s name is Opie, from what he’s caught in conversation around him. It seems like too soft a name for this guy, who’s built so huge he might as well be a bear.

“Yeah, man,” Dean nods back, shoving the bills down into the pocket of his jeans.

“You want a real challenge?” Another biker steps up from the shadows, black hair thick and wildly curly around his angular, aged face, blue eyes piercing. He looks like he’s been beaten to hell and back again more times than anyone could count, nose crooked, cheekbones cutting against skin like glass, eyes glittering in the dim light.

The vibe Dean gets from this guy is one he doesn’t like.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Too good for competition?” the man asks, mouth widening in an unsettling grin.

Dean shrugs. “Just know when it’s time to quit.”

The guy looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowing.

Opie settles a massive hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Tig.” The rest of what he says is lost as he leans down and speaks into Tig’s ear.

Tig’s eyes are calculated, thinking over whatever Opie is saying, and then they both stop, eyes going to the front of the room.

The guy walking in is dressed in the same leather vest as the guys around Dean. With his long blond hair, day old scruff and bright blue eyes, he looks like a younger, better-looking version of Kurt Cobain. 

“Jax,” Opie says, moving around the pool table to greet him, the rest of them following suit.

Jax doesn’t walk into the bar; he _swaggers_ , like every joint in his body is oiled, liquid and casually dangerous. But he smiles wide and easy, shoulders and chin angling back as he nods to the other bikers. 

There’s a lot of shoulder clapping and one-armed hugging that Dean would never have expected from a group of bikers. It’s manly and all, it’s just… 

_brotherly_

Dean lets his fingers curl around the bills in his pocket, eyes falling to the threadbare mess of a carpet. For a moment, he’s too aware of the amulet pressed against the hollow of his throat, freezing the flow of air to his lungs.

He’s got money in his pocket; his stomach’s filled with a burger he’s almost sure had some actual meat in it and a cold beer. He’s got a room at a decent motel a couple blocks away, and his car’s waiting for him in the parking lot.

Good enough.

He looks up and sees Jax walking straight for him, predatory sway in his shoulders, his hips, motion somehow not completely lost in the loose jeans he’s wearing. He’s also wearing white tennis shoes instead of the expected biker boots, and somehow, he manages not to look ridiculous in them. There’s no smile on his face now. President, Dean registers, reading Jax’s patches. No wonder the other bikers had flocked when he’d walked in.

He draws to a stop a few feet from Dean, cigarette in one hand drifting smoke.

“You’re new.” His eyes sweep the length of Dean’s body and back again.

“Just passing through,” Dean says with a tilt of his head.

Jax leans one hip against the pool table, squinting at Dean through a cloud of cigarette smoke as he inhales, nodding. “On the way to where?”

“Wherever.” Dean shrugs.

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions for someone just passing through,” Jax observes, voice calm in a way that tells Dean there’s nothing casual about this.

He’d made some inquiries around town earlier today. Indirect as they were, they must’ve triggered something for these guys to show up like this. 

“You had your buddies keep me here ‘til you showed up.” It’s not a question, and Jax doesn’t bother to answer, watching Dean expectantly.

Undercover FBI agent isn’t going to fly, he can tell just by looking in Jax’s eyes. Hell, the _truth_ isn’t going to win him any friends, either.

Dean gauges his odds—eight of them all told, most of them between him and the front door. 

Said door suddenly flies open, wood striking wood with a fantastically loud, crunching boom. Everyone in the room stops, turning to look.

The men who pour in through the door are dressed in jackets like the Sons, but their colors are different. 

Dean turns his head, giving Jax a pointed look.

“Friends of yours?”

Definitely not, judging by the amount of guns Jax and the rest of his crew pull on them. Everyone else in the club is vanishing down the back hallway, and Dean considers joining them. This obviously doesn’t concern him.

“Chavez,” Jax growls, taking a step toward the man in the front. “What the fuck--”

It happens fast.

Chavez’s eyes flash black, quick motion of his wrist and Jax goes flying, back meeting the wall with the crumpling sound of wood-paneling.

Dean’s gun is already in his hand, barely fitted against his palm when he pulls the trigger, leaving a hole through the head of the demon-biker closest to him before the Sons start firing. Dean takes one more demon through the brain, watching lightning flash, skull painted inside the skin like a photo negative. The remaining two demons stagger under the Sons’ combined firepower, bodies jolting, jittering, exploding in bursts of crimson. Glass sparkles in the air like diamonds, wood chips flying, bullets tearing apart the room.

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Jax get on his feet, Chavez unable to hold him through the assault. Opie shouts something at him Dean can’t hear over the gunfire. Jax answers him by taking two steps forward, pulling out his gun and firing three shots in rapid succession in the direction of the demons. He’s still firing when Dean moves for cover in the shadows. 

No good trying to shoot them in the head when they’re being jerked around by a flurry of bullets. He’ll wait. 

The sound of thunder slowly thins to silence as the Sons run out of ammo, most of them too stunned to reload.

Chavez stands there, streaked in crimson, riddled by bullet holes too numerous for any human to survive. He flicks a backhand in the direction of the two Sons closest to him—whose names Dean didn’t catch—and their bodies hit the hardwood floor.

Chavez points at Jax and—

Dean moves forward, taking aim on the closest demon and firing. It falls to the ground, lightning racing beneath its skin.

“Winchester,” Chavez hisses, eyes thinning to slits as they find him.

Dean aims for the span of bone between—

Chavez’s head snaps back, mouth howling open, column of black smoke spilling out.

The shot takes Chavez through the chin instead, tearing open his throat in a gush of red, black smoke streaming from the edges. It trails from the room and the body falls like an empty sack, collapsing against the blood-slick floor.

Dean hears someone—maybe Tig—whisper, “Holy shit” into the otherwise unbroken silence.

_And this concludes today’s lesson in Demonology 101._

Four dead biker bodies bleeding out onto the floor and Dean’s got no love for that. But three dead demons are even better than the money in his pocket, the burger and beer in his belly. There’s a momentary satisfaction, warmth settling into his chest.

A split second later, Jax is in his space.

“Chavez knew you. How?” Jax demands in a tone of voice that communicates Dean has mere seconds to answer him and get it right.

Dean stands up straight, lowering his gun a few inches. He could still kill Jax if he has to, but he’d rather not.

“I just helped you,” he says, taking a step forward. “You really wanna shoot me?”

The sudden barrel of the gun shoved in his face says ‘yes’.

Obviously, Jax isn’t convinced.

Dean feels laughter roil inside his chest, bubbling through bitter tar. All the shit he’s been through, hell and back again; he never would’ve called that he’d go down like this, on the other end of a bunch of paranoid, human bikers whose collective asses he just saved.

He coughs, pushing back the madness at the edge of his throat, hand rubbing down the line of it until he steadies. 

“He seem human to you?” He jerks his head in the direction of Chavez’s body. “Did you miss the part where black smoke came pouring out of him?”

That would stump most people for at least a full minute. Jax only hesitates for a couple of seconds. “Doesn’t tell me why Chavez knew you.”

Fine. Fuck it. He wants the truth? Dean’s more than willing to give it, if only to see the looks on their faces.

“He was possessed by a demon. All of them were. Whoever Chavez used to be—he never knew me. But the thing that was in his body… the thing that flew out of his mouth?” Dean meets Jax’s eyes dead on, mouth curling in a bitter smile. “They _all_ know me.”

“Bullshit,” Jax snaps.

“You’re looking me in the eye.” Dean’s fingers flex around the Colt. “Tell me I’m lying.”

Jax stares at Dean for a long time, their gazes frozen on each other beneath faint, yellow light. Dean can see the calculated debate happening inside the other man’s mind, balancing the possible threat Dean poses against the rapidly cooling bodies on the floor.

There’s a moment, a fractional shift in Jax’s expression that makes Dean relax his hold on his gun.

The tension in Jax’s body doesn’t loosen so much as it drops back a pace. “They come here for you?”

“ **I** came here for _them_.” 

Blue eyes tighten on him, glimmering in the dim light across the barrel of the gun he’s staring down… and then it lowers beyond his vision, muscle in Jax’s jaw flexing. There’s a moment of hesitation between them, gun hands turning palm outward before Dean tucks his gun back against the base of his spine while Jax does the same.

“Cops are gonna be all over this,” Jax says to Opie, who nods. “Get Unser on the phone, get him to contain it.”

“Calaveras,” Tig says, surveying the massacred bodies, shaking his head. “The Mayans are gonna be pissed.”

“We’ll take care of it.” Jax shoots Tig a look. “You and Opie go get the van. The rest of us’ll start cleaning up.”

Opie and Tig nod and head for the fractured front door.

“Winchester?” Jax asks, looking at Dean again.

No sense trying to protect his identity now that the demon’s spilled it. “Dean Winchester.”

“Dean.” Jax’s eyes rake over him, quick up and down, and then he tilts his head in the direction of the floor. “You as good at getting rid of bodies as you are at making ‘em?”

Dean knows the offer is more about keeping him around until Jax can get a better handle on his story than an offer of peace. But none of that matters. He’s got his own reasons for sticking around.

He figures his smirk is as good as any answer.

 

\-------

 

There’s still a shitload of cleaning to be done inside the bar, but Opie’s got the bodies loaded into the van when Jax meets him out back.

“Niners?” Opie asks eyes flickering toward the van.

Jax nods, leaning back against the brick wall next to the door and pulling a cigarette from the pack in his jeans pocket. He settles it between his lips and cups his hands around the match, inhaling deep.

“Take Happy and Chibs with you.”

Opie nods, then hesitates. “You trust this guy?”

Jax shakes his head, exhaling smoke in a slow zig-zag pattern. “No.”

Opie’s brows draw together in a worried frown that’s all too familiar. Jax remembers the first time he saw it, in his own backyard, both of them no older than four. There isn’t an expression that crosses Opie’s face Jax doesn’t get at a glance. He knows what Opie thinks of this whole thing.

“You believe him?” Opie asks, voice neutral.

Jax shakes his head again, but this time it’s because he isn’t sure. Or maybe because he doesn’t want to answer.

Opie just looks at him for a few seconds. “It’s crazy.”

“I know.”

There’s more he wants to say, Jax can see it in him. But Opie lets it go for now, nodding and moving past Jax through the doorway.

Jax tilts his head back against the brick, nose angling up at the stars, and sighs out a cloud of smoke. He knows it’s crazy, but he knows what he saw come out of Chavez. And what he’d seen in Dean Winchester’s eyes when he’d held a gun to the man’s face.

Jax doesn’t trust him, but he’s pretty sure Dean’s not lying. Whatever the truth is, Dean believes what he’s saying.

His mother’s voice has always been a constant in his head, even when she’s not there, and he can hear her now, clear as a bell.

_Demons, Jackson? Really?_

He lets his chin fall toward his chest, hand running through his hair.

Jesus fucking Christ.

 

\------

 

The sign over the low building directly ahead reads Teller-Morrow Garage, headlights of the Impala splashing across it as Dean turns into the parking lot, rumble of motorcycles all around him.

Paranoid bikers and demons—not the best mix he can think of. But he’d taken one look at Sheriff Unser’s face when he’d walked into the bar, seen the way he’d looked at Jax, and had understood who holds the real power in Charming. The Sons are the kind of power he could use on his side.

He can see his brother in the passenger seat, shoulders tense inside the loose lines of his jacket.

_Sam shakes his head, hazel eyes cutting across to Dean’s in the dim parking lot light. “They don’t believe you.”_

Dean yanks the keys from the ignition; door shoved open, body sliding out across the leather seat. Jax and his crew are just shifting their motorcycles to one side, engines dying down, low parking lot light gleaming off painted black. He leans back against the Impala, one hand curling restlessly at his side, other squeezed tight around the car key, teeth cutting grooves into his palm.

The bikers walk together as one, Jax leading a few steps ahead of the rest, dark silhouettes edged in wan light.

_“What if they decide to kill you?” Sam whispers._

He turns his head and he can see the fluorescent bulb of the parking lot lamp shining through the faint shape of his brother’s face. A thin rime of frost swirls patterns across his brother’s skin, ice crystals scattered across his cheekbones like stars.

Dean closes his eyes, swallowing hard.

A footstep scuffs against the packed dirt of the parking lot close on Dean’s left.

His eyes snap open, and Sam is gone, lone, baleful light bulb the only thing staring back at him.

 

*

 

The inside of the Sons of Anarchy’s clubhouse is bigger inside than Dean would have guessed. It has the same dull walls as the club they'd been inside earlier, a single pool table, a few tables, a jukebox and a bar, but there's also a lounge area with couches and chairs, and an area with a big round stage complete with a stripper pole towards the back. It looks exactly like a dozen other big bars Dean’s been inside, except for the grim reaper Sons of Anarchy insignia hanging on the far left wall next to a set of thick wooden double doors.

But there’s a _feel_ to this place that sends his gut turning. This place is _home_ to the Sons, their connection spoken body to walls, evident in the ease of their motion. 

Dean feels anything but easy.

Jax pauses to talk to one of the other guys—the one with a short mohawk, wide lightning bolts tattooed along both sides of it. Juice—Dean’s pretty sure that’s the guy’s name—listens and then nods. He moves to the outside of the bar, picking up the laptop lying on it. Jax walks behind the bar, bottle of whiskey grabbed in one hand, shot glasses in the other before he walks back around, falling onto one of the barstools like he’s been doing it all his life. 

Not a single one of the other bikers looks directly at Dean, their eyes skirting his edges. But Jax looks up at him sideways, white ends of his blond hair curling against his jaw. He leans his head toward the empty seat next to him, invitation implicit. He pours whiskey into each glass, amber liquid rising just below the brim as Dean takes the seat beside him.

Jax folds his arms across the bar, and then turns his head. “Ope, take the guys upstairs for a while.”

Opie holds Jax’s eyes for a moment longer, and Dean can see conversations take place between them that don’t require words at all. A brief ache flutters like a bird behind his rib cage, and he breathes deep, wills it away.

When the other bikers are gone, Jax pushes the one of the glasses across the bar to Dean. 

Dean glances at the shot, and then his eyes flick back to Jax, watching as Jax downs his own shot, muscles in his throat working, head snapping back. He sets the glass back down against the bar.

“So,” Jax says, fingers moving to pick up the whiskey bottle, tipping it to pour another shot for himself. “Demons.”

“You believe they were demons?”

Jax shakes his head back and forth slowly. “I’ve never seen any shit like that before… but… fucking demons?”

Dean nods fractionally, understanding. “It sounds crazy.”

“You believe it.” Jax turns his head, looking at Dean.

“Been killing them too long not to believe it.”

Jax nods like he accepts that, even if he’s not sure he believes it. “Why’d they come after us?”

Dean gets from Jax’s tone that he means the demons, not the bikers, which means he’s at least willing to entertain the theory. For one quick, fraction of a second, Dean’s gratified.

“Don’t know for sure,” Dean shrugs. “But I’m guessing you’re in their way.”

“You know about them. You’ve got a gun that kills them. If anybody knows what they want…” Jax turns on his barstool, facing Dean. “It’s you.”

“If I already knew,” Dean tells him in no uncertain terms, turning to face him, “they’d have been too dead to show up tonight. I don’t know their plan, but demons always have one. From what I’ve heard, this plan’s focused on Charming. There’re demons suiting up all around this town. There’ll be more coming. Lots more.”

Jax considers that for a moment, face inscrutable, but it’s all there in his eyes—the way he’s torn between dismissing Dean as a nutcase and taking what he’s saying seriously. “Why?”

Dean shakes his head. “All I can figure is there’s something in Charming they want.”

“What the hell would demons want in Charming?”

Dean smiles without a bit of humor. “Maybe it’s their promised land.”

Jax turns his head a fraction, eyes measuring Dean. “You’re kidding.”

“Mostly,” Dean allows. “It’s probably an object, something powerful. Maybe a place that’s powerful. One that’s on a thin spot?”

“Thin spot?”

“A place where the walls get thin between Hell and earth.”

“You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?” Jax shakes his head, hand pushing into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes. 

“You ever had any weird shit happen around here? Things that can’t be explained by normal every day rules?”

Jax thrusts a cigarette between his lips, cups his hand around the flame of his lighter and inhales. His face reflects the orange-gold glow for a moment, light and shadow throwing his features into sharp angles before he exhales. 

“No weird shit I ever heard about until tonight.”

“Probably an object, then. But if you don’t know about anything weird happening here, no telling what it is.” 

Jax flicks ashes at the glass ashtray on the bar, sparing a glance in that direction before looking back to Dean. “How do you know all this?”

Dean curls his tongue against the roof of his mouth, one side of his mouth working. “Family business. I was raised on it.”

“You mean this is what you do? Kill demons?”

“Demons and other things.”

Jax stops, lips parted, cigarette pausing a fraction away from sliding between. “Other things?”

“You’d think I was even crazier if I told you.”

Jax drags slow on his cigarette, one corner of his mouth quirking around the filter. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“You’d be surprised,” Dean says, mouth quirking in return.

“Try me.”

“I’m trying not to ruin my chances, here,” Dean tells him with a rueful smile.

“Chances at what?” Jax asks, brows rising, mouth slipping into a deeper smirk.

Dean meant his chances of Jax believing him, but—

They both turn toward the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Juice appears in the doorway a moment later.

His eyes flicker over Dean before they glance away. “Jax. You got a minute?”

Jax rises from the barstool, pushing it back with a ripple of his body. “You good?” he asks, looking down at Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean nods.

Jax nods in return, and then turns, moving toward the doorway. Dean watches him go, eyes cutting to the side to follow him, confident, swaggering sway around the corner of the doorway.

 

\-----

Jax hopes like hell Juice has good news for him. One look at the expression on Juice’s face when they get inside Jax’s room tells him that’s not gonna happen.

“What’d you find?” 

“Guy’s got a record that puts us to shame. Multiple charges for possession of illegal weapons, grand theft auto, breaking and entering, evading arrest, impersonation of a federal officer, credit card fraud, attempted bank robbery, destruction of property, murder.” 

“Busy guy,” Jax says, slightly impressed. He’s not sure what’s got Juice looking so worried—spread across Sam Crow, most of them have at least a couple of those charges on their records. 

Juice hesitates, eyes flickering to the door before he goes on. “And some weirder shit. Grave desecration, grave robbing. What the hell’s he digging up dead bodies for?”

Jax considers that, thinking about what Dean said about how he’s been doing this all his life, how he kills other things besides demons. He doesn’t understand how this fits exactly, but he can imagine it might.

_You believing in vampires now?_

The thought is so sudden and ridiculous that he nearly laughs. He wonders what Dean would say if he told him, and the urge to laugh dies completely. It’s all too easy to see that intense face staring him dead in the eye and not laughing at all. 

It occurs to him then that trying to fit shit like grave robbery into what Dean’s told him so far and contemplating the existence of vampires means he’s further down the road to believing the guy than he wants to be. He’s still trying to get his head around demons.

To Juice, he shrugs, knowing Juice doesn’t expect an answer. “He ever do any time?”

“No. Guy’s a master of escape, too.”

“Then the cops are still looking for him,” Jax frowns. The last thing the Sons need is someone running from the law hanging around.

Juice stares at him for a second, and then reluctantly, he says, “That’s where it gets even weirder.”

 

\-----

Dean’s still at the bar, pondering the two shots sitting there when Jax comes back into the room. Dean spins around on the stool, getting to his feet. Jax is frowning, thoughtful as he walks toward the pool table and turns, leaning his ass back against it.

“I had Juice look you up,” Jax says, folding his arms across his chest.

It’s the kind of reveal that would have worried Dean a lot more before he’d helped Jax gun down a room full of biker-demons. Before the conversation they’d had earlier. But it still gets under his skin, winding him up a notch, putting him on guard.

“Find anything interesting?”

“You know you’re officially dead?” Jax asks, brows rising. “Twice?”

“Four times.” Dean shrugs. “The real two never made paperwork.”

“You’re serious?” Jax gives Dean a look like he thinks Dean’s deliberately fucking with him, and Dean lets it slide off.

He knows he’s being an ass, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. He nods. “Being dead on paper? Hell of a lot more convenient than the real deal.”

Jax is silent for a long moment, taking that in, and Dean’s starting to get tired of this whole thing. 

“What about your brother?”

The question catches Dean like an arrow through his heart, heart still pumping blood around the wound. He stands there, silent, frozen, throat tight, chest aching. Anger thrashes counterpoint, serpent’s tail slashing at his guts. What he’s feeling must show in his face, because Jax’s expression softens a little.

“Not as lucky as you?” he asks.

“No,” Dean finally answers, pushing the word through the tangle in his throat, shaking his head once.

“What happened?” Jax’s voice is quieter now.

Dean closes his hands into slow fists, throat dry, clicking as he swallows. 

_\--Sam’s arms open for him, and Dean grabs him, fingers digging into the muscles of his brother’s shoulders, eyes closing as he yanks Sam close--_

He sucks in a deep breath, slamming the door on the memory, muscles trembling against the strain. Shaking his head takes more effort than it feels like he’s got left.

He can sense more than see Jax’s nod, eyes focused on the floor. Jax shifts his weight, and Dean hopes like hell he’s going to let this go.

What comes out of his mouth is even worse than Dean expected.

“I had a little brother, too,” Jax says. There’s memory in Jax’s face, the draw of his brows together. But there’s something else as he looks at Dean—sympathy bordering on pity, like he _understands_ , like he’s been where Dean’s been and has the first fucking clue what Dean’s talking about. Like anybody ever could.

Rage boils over, popping like a fever blister, volcanic coursing through his veins. 

“Yeah?” he demands, advancing on Jax. “Did you have to watch the fucking _devil_ crawl into his skin and eat him from the inside out?” The words explode out of him in a wave of pure fury. “Did you have to watch him sacrifice himself to save this sorry ass world? Did you have to see the look on his face before he died?”

Jax’s eyes are rounder and bluer than Dean’s ever seen them.

“Shit,” Jax hisses, shaking his head.

“That all you got?” Dean demands, advancing another step. “‘Shit’”?

A ripple of motion goes through Jax’s body, impatience running shoulder to hip as he shifts his weight. And then he steps up, face shoving into Dean’s, jaw tightening.

“Did you hear what you just said to me? Anybody else would’ve thrown your ass out the second you started talking about demons—now you’re talking about the devil. What the fuck do you expect?”

There’s fire in Jax, raw honesty that cuts through the haze of Dean’s anger, startling it out of him. Rage drains in a rush, leaving him so quick he feels deflated, empty.

Fuck. He can’t believe he just spilled his guts all over the floor in front of this guy.

“Whatever.” Dean spits the word like venom, turning away. He needs to walk, get the fuck out of here. This was stupid. The whole idea was fucking stupid. 

The hand that catches his shoulder isn’t rough, but Dean spins around ready for a fight anyway.

Jax is looking at him with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to puzzle out something particularly difficult about Dean--or maybe like he’s weighing his options where Dean’s concerned. The warmth and weight of Jax’s hand on Dean’s shoulder is distracting. Jax is closer to him than anyone’s been in months, face inches from Dean’s. Low thrumming in his muscles, a flash of heat through his belly so out of synch with the moment that it leaves him confused.

He can see something flicker in Jax’s eyes the instant before he pulls back, breaking the look.

It’s a moment before Jax speaks, voice quieter now. “All I know is, I saw Chavez take eight rounds to the head and chest without going down until that thing came out of him. I got nothing that makes any sense of that except what you told me.”

“Don’t leave.” It’s not quite a request, but it isn’t a command either. “If what you said about more of them coming is true, then we’re gonna need you. But I have to talk to the club first.”

All Dean wants is to leave, door calling to him, but when he looks up and meet’s Jax eyes, he can see the truth there. Jax is worried they might need him, and Dean knows sure as anything they do. 

“I’ll wait,” he says, turning, fingers closing around the outside edge of the bar.

 

*

 

A few minutes later, the Sons file through the room and disappear through the double doors next to the reaper insignia hanging on the wall. It closes behind them, leaving the bar completely silent.

Dean crosses the floor to the jukebox, heels of his boots scuffing the tile. They’ve got a good selection of music—most of the same albums he keeps in his car, plus a bunch more that he doesn’t have room for but wishes he did. So much of this music has been the soundtrack to his life, it’s impossible to separate from his memories. He hasn’t been able to listen to any of it…

He catches his tongue between his back teeth, biting down, turning sharply away from the jukebox. He walks back to the bar, stopping in front of the stool he’d been sitting on.

_Sam is sitting on the stool next to him, yellow light watery where it filters down through him. Frost lines the ridges of his fingers as they close around the shot Jax left behind, ice gathered in the creases of knuckles, catching light like diamonds. Cold patterns swirl out from his fingers, crackling, freezing the glass solid._

It’s a big room, but Dean can almost feel the air pressing in on him, making it hard to breathe, familiar ache heavy in his chest. Dean closes his eyes, willing away the sight, and when he opens them again, the room is empty.

He gives in to the urge he’s been fighting for the past hour and picks up the shot Jax poured for him, tossing it down his throat, burn running a thin line down to his belly. He sets the glass down on the bar, focusing on the sensation of heat radiating out through him. It feels more like comfort than it should, and he instantly wants another—wants the whole goddamned bottle. 

He can’t afford to drown out the world right now, much as he wishes he could. This would be a stupid place to get shitfaced. He needs to focus on the job, anyway.

_\--“Demons. Lots of ‘em.” Bobby’s voice is full of sandpaper grit, one finger tapping the map in Southern California._

_“Who’s throwing the party?” Deans leans over, trying to get a better look._

_“No idea,” Bobby shrugs. “All anybody knows is a bunch of ‘em are suitin’ up around this town.”_

_“An attack?”_

_“Could be.” Bobby shrugs. “That many demons don’t mean nothin’ good, anyway.”--_

Dean can’t imagine what the hell they want in Charming, but he needs to find out. He’s sure Bobby would’ve called him if he’d heard anything, but Dean’s got some new information for him. He digs into his pocket, fingers pushing past an old receipt, and pulls out his phone. 

Bobby answers on the second ring, voice as gruff as ever.

“Bobby. Had my first run-in tonight. Outlaw demon bikers, that was new.”

“Demon bikers?” Bobby echoes, perplexed.

“Rival gang of the crew in Charming.”

“What the hell were they doing inside a buncha bikers?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“No idea. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Dean gives him the names of the gangs and Bobby writes them down, hesitating in a way that tells Dean what’s coming next.

“Dean. You shouldn’t be out there alone.”

They’ve had this conversation half a dozen times since Charming popped up on the demon-radar.

“Might not be, if I can get the Sons to buy in.” 

“Working with a bunch of outlaw bikers… you gotta know that’s a bad idea.”

“You ever known me to do anything that wasn’t?” 

Dean can almost hear Bobby shake his head, imagine the exasperated expression on his face.

“Call me if you hear anything. Thanks, Bobby,” Dean says, and hangs up.

Dean eyes the door the Sons disappeared through. Bobby probably has a point about working with them, but hell, it’s not like his life’s ever been risk free. 

If Sam were here…

But Sam isn’t here. And if this isn’t the life Sam wanted for him… well.

It’s the one he knows.

 

\----- 

 

The insignia of the reaper is lovingly carved into the center of the huge redwood table, rendered in three dimensional glory. Jax sits at the head of the table, looking at the other seven men gathered around it. They’re all tense, wound up from what went down tonight, and he can’t blame them. What he’s about to tell them probably isn’t going to make them feel any better.

He tells them everything Juice found out, everything Dean told him, right up to the point of the devil crawling inside his brother. He hesitates there, knowing he should tell them—full disclosure—before they make any kind of decision, but it feels wrong. Like it would be a dick move to share shit Dean obviously hadn’t meant to tell him in the first place.

But he barely knows Dean, and these are his brothers. 

Jax finishes telling them and lets the words hang in the air, smoke rising up to fill the momentary silence.

“Jesus.” Tig shakes his head in disbelief, running a hand across his face. “He’s fuckin’ crazy.”

There’s a round of muttered agreement, everyone shifting in their chairs, tension easing.

“No,” Piney says, quiet and calm. All heads in the room turn to look as Piney stamps his cigarette out in the ashtray, eyes focused on it thoughtfully. Piney doesn’t look up, gaze lost somewhere in the depths of the glass ashtray. “Not the way you’re thinking.”

Jax waits, watching the old man’s face.

“Saw a lot of guys come back from the war like that,” Piney says.

Everyone goes very still, attention focused laser sharp on the old man, and a sliver of unease works inside Jax’s chest. Piney doesn’t talk about that shit, not ever. Not unless he’s got a damned good reason to.

“Same look in their eyes,” Piney goes on, lost in the past, slow to find the words. “Like they barely knew where they were.”

Smoke curls through the air, obscuring Jax’s vision across a pause so long that Jax isn’t sure Piney’s going to keep going, and then Piney’s eyes snap up, focusing, meeting Jax’s directly.

“They never left the jungle. They just came home.”

Silence stretches through the room, complete and total, and Jax feels something dark and cold slither inside his belly.

_The thing that flew out of his mouth? They **all** know me._

“Tell you what he is for sure.” Piney’s eyes narrow slightly, brows rising as he nods once. “Dangerous.”

Jax nods, still looking at Piney. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“So what do we do, here?” Bobby asks, frowning at Jax.

Jax settles his elbows on the table, leaning forward, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Look, I don’t know if I believe him about the devil. But I know what we saw tonight was fucked, and there’s no other explanation for it besides what he told us.” He pauses long enough for that to sink in, sees the looks on their faces that say they agree with that, at least, no matter how reluctantly. “He knows more about it than we do. I say we work with him. For now.”

Their faces turn thoughtful, some of them undecided. Jax settles back in the chair and regards them as one. “Do we need to put it to a vote?”

The dissenting shakes of all their heads is all the answer he needs.

 

\-----

 

The doors to the Sons’ meeting opens almost forty minutes after it closed, and Dean knows it’s well past 2am. He waits as half the Sons pass him by, shuffling toward the front door and passing through, other half of them opting for whatever’s upstairs instead. 

Jax comes out last, obviously in no hurry to go anywhere, walking to the bar, leaning and reaching past Dean to pick up the shot glasses and the bottle of whiskey.

“We’re in,” Jax tells him, bottle caught between the fingers of one hand, shot glasses dangling from two fingers of the other, thumb holding them in place. There’s an energy about him, even when he’s still that makes it seem like he’s still moving.

“Good.”

Jax is still eyeing him. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“I could use twenty,” Dean mutters, and Jax actually smiles.

“No shit,” Jax agrees, motioning toward one of the tables with a fluid sweep of the whiskey bottle, body already moving in that direction.

Dean shakes his head, hand squeezing the Impala keys in his pocket. “I have to drive.”

“We have rooms upstairs.”

“Thanks, but--”

“Dean.” Jax’s expression is completely serious. “We’re working with you. As long as you don’t fuck us around, that means you’re safe here.”

The hell of it is, Dean believes him. He’s got no reason to, except that Jax radiates ‘no bullshit’ so loud and clear even Dean can’t ignore it. It’s there in every movement, every expression. 

“I think we have different definitions of ‘safe’.”

Jax raises his brows in silent question, looking up at Dean.

“Anything can walk in here. My motel room is protected.”

“Protected how?”

“Sigils, symbols, salt, mojo bags.”

Jax looks at him for a moment, and then lifts a shoulder, motion sliding to the other, head following with a tilt that approximates a nod. “We can talk about that tomorrow. You’ve got your gun to protect you. Sit down and have a drink.”

Dean would—should—protest that the Colt won’t do him a damned bit of good if he’s plastered, but it wouldn’t be the truth. He’s been doing this so long he could kill evil motherfuckers in his drunken sleep, and has. 

He pulls out the chair next to Jax across the corner of the table instead, and sits down.

“So how long have you been doing this?” he asks, watching Jax pour them both another shot.

“The club? All my life. My own ‘family business’,” Jax says, small smile curving his lips. He pushes the shot to Dean and Dean downs it, feeling his stomach bloom with pleasant warmth.

“My dad founded the Sons when he got back from Vietnam,” Jax goes on before downing is his own shot.

“My dad served in Vietnam. Marine Corps.”

“My dad was a marine, too.” Jax tips up the bottle and pours them each another. Dean gets the sense from the way Jax says “was” that he’s not just referring to his dad’s status as a former marine.

“Did he…” Dean starts to ask, and then stops. Shit, it’s none of his business if or how Jax’s dad died.

But Jax seems to understand anyway. “He got hit by a semi when I was sixteen.” He doesn’t look at Dean as he tosses back another shot, but his voice doesn’t waver. It’s an old wound. 

“Mine died a few years back.” The wound isn’t as old as Jax’s, but it’s old enough now that what pain is there is eased by the next shot sliding into his belly.

“What about your mom?” Jax asks.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the glass before he sets on the table. “She died when I was a little kid.”

There’s no pity in Jax’s expression this time, just a quiet, compassionate intensity shining in those piercing blue eyes. 

Dean clears his throat and has to glance away.

A moment passes before Jax moves, breaking the silence.

“You’ll get to meet my mom tomorrow. She helps run the garage.” Jax leans on one elbow across the table, pouring Dean yet another shot.

“Think she’ll like me?” Dean asks, deadpan as he arches one brow.

The sound Jax makes isn’t quite a laugh. “I doubt it. She’s... protective of the club.” Jax hands Dean the shot this time, and tells him, “Whatever she says, don’t let her scare you off.”

“I’m hard to scare.”

“You haven’t met Gemma,” Jax tells him with a hard smirk.

Jax clearly isn’t kidding, his cynicism almost caustic. Dean isn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he nods and tips his shot back instead.

“I heard you sharked Opie before I showed up tonight,” Jax says, smile playing around his mouth as he sets down his empty glass. He tilts his head in the direction of the pool table. “You wanna play?”

"Sure."

Jax passes him another shot and then walks to the table, racking the balls with the ease of practice, fingers moving quick and deft.

Dean sinks the one ball on the break, lines up carefully and sinks the two, then the four. He misses the six—fucking green ball always blends into the table—and steps back, watching. 

Jax leans across the table like he owns it, fingers arching against the green, stick sliding smooth between forefinger and thumb, barest tip of his tongue pressing against the corner of his mouth for a moment. He shoots, sending the twelve ball all the way up the rail to the corner pocket, cue ball sliding around into perfect position on the fourteen. He makes that, pours them both two more shots, and then sinks three more balls. Dean realizes he’s probably in trouble here, but he’s finding it hard to care, because…

Jax is draping his body across the table to line up the shot, his jeans riding down his hips as he bends over, showing just the edge of white boxers against bare, tanned skin. Dean’s got an amazing view from where he’s standing, sees the muscles flex in Jax's lower back as he makes the shot.

Jax stands up and sways with a liquid gait around the table, hair swinging back and forth, brushing against his cheeks, and leans down. Long blond hair framing his face, lips slightly parted, eyes intent on the ball and he looks…

It’s not like Dean hasn’t noticed how hot Jax is, it’s just that until now he’s been too focused on other things. But with the alcohol in him, his body feels warm and loose, mind slightly hazy, and it’s hard to focus on anything else. Especially when Jax glances up and sees him watching, corner of his mouth curling upward before he makes his shot.

It’s been months since… since Dean’s even _thought_ about…

He can’t remember the last time. Everything between Lucifer crawling out of the pit and… the end… was so mission critical he’s not even sure he’d breathed.

Has it really been that long?

Jax sinks his last ball, then the eight and walks up to Dean, planting the end of his pool stick against the floor, fingers closing around the slender shaft before he pulls it in against his shoulder, eyes glittering in the dim light as he leans in and looks at Dean.

“You want another shot?”

“Think I already had too many.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s as close as he’s willing to get. 

Jax looks at him for a few long seconds, and then he leans back. “I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

Dean nods wordlessly and then watches as Jax recedes from his space, walking to hang both their pool sticks back on the wall rack. He moves toward the stairs, then, motioning for Dean to follow him. 

The stairs creak a little beneath their weight, and despite the alcohol, Dean feels a cord of tension wind into a knot inside his chest.

Jax opens one of the first doors they come to, reaching inside and flicking on the light. He motions with the same hand at the room before it falls back to his side. 

Dean moves in front of the doorway as Jax falls back a step. It’s mostly decorated in wood paneling and grim reapers, but the bed is made and the room smells clean.

“Thanks,” Dean says, turning to nod at Jax. 

Jax nods back, body angling away from Dean’s as he turns. “See you in the morning.”

Dean watches, waits until Jax disappears through a doorway near the end of the hall, and then he turns, walks inside the room and shuts the door. He sits down on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots until he can pull them off, socks following behind, and then stands, stripping out of his shirt and jeans.

He flicks off the light switch, not bothering to lock the door—anything that wants in besides a human won’t stop for locks anyway—and slides in between the cool, laundry scented sheets in his boxers, Colt tucked beneath the pillow, fingertips resting against the smooth wooden handle.

He falls asleep to the memory of regretful hazel eyes and long, dark hair caught in the whipping wind.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes to the sun slanting in through the blinds, dust motes dancing between the shafts of light. 

He’s thirsty, throat dry and dusty as the air, fingertips still settled against the edge of the Colt. He pulls it from beneath the pillow and rises from the bed, head cocking to one side as he listens for any signs of life. Or death. Or demons.

Everything is quiet, and he walks to the bathroom joined to the room, shucking out of his boxers as his feet hit the cold tile, door pushed shut, light turned on, gun laid against the porcelain edge of the sink. He turns on the water, bending to cup his hands and letting the flow of water rinse his mouth before he swallows. He rubs his wet hands over his face, slipping upward until the heels of his palms press against his eyelids, and then pulls them away.

He looks like shit under the fluorescent light, shadows beneath his eyes etched in a shade of blue that’s threatening to give way to purple. Part of him is amazed they haven’t already turned black, considering how little sleep he’s gotten the past few months. He’s lost weight; jaws and cheeks thinned until they’re as sharp as they were when he was teenager, slight belly eaten away to reveal the muscle beneath. Lean and honed and he looks more like a weapon than death warmed over.

His eyes fall to the bit of gold nestled in the hollow of his throat. 

_\--“We both know I’m not coming back from this, Dean.” Sam’s eyes are liquid, glittering hazel in the harsh light of the motel room. This is it, the beginning of the end. Gallons and gallons of blood in the trunk of the Impala, Lucifer waiting for them, and soon his little brother is going to be dead and gone._

_Bitterness rising in the back of his throat, and it shouldn’t be like this—shouldn’t **have** to be like this. _

_“Sam…”_

_“Don’t,” Sam breathes. “You know I have to do this.”_

_“You shouldn’t have to.”_

_“Take this.” Sam’s fingers close around Dean’s, turning his hand palm up, weight pressed between their palms, sharp edges of it cutting into Dean’s skin before he pulls back to see what it is._

_The amulet catches the light of the room, reflecting it against his skin._

_“After you threw it away… I...” Sam trails off, shaking his head. “You don’t have to wear it, but… just, keep it, okay?” Sam pleads. “Keep it for me. To remember me.”--_

Like he’s ever going to fucking forget. Like he ever could.

Dean closes his eyes, leaning against the sink for a long time before he finally moves, turning on the shower and stepping under the spray.

 

*

By the time he gets downstairs, there are other people awake. There’s a cute dark-haired girl behind the bar pouring coffee into a mug for Bobby, and the air is filled with smell of bacon frying.

“Hey there, sugar,” the girl says as she spots him, flashing him a bright smile, one hand on her hip, the other holding up the coffee pot. She’s got big dark eyes, pouty lips, and is dressed in the skimpiest tank top and cut-off jeans Dean’s ever seen outside a porno. “You want a cup?”

Bobby turns to look at him, eyes stuttering for a second before he nods. “Mornin’.”

It’s the equivalent of waking up next to someone whose name he doesn’t remember, and despite the fact that Bobby’s trying to be civil, Dean feels a need to head for the Impala, find a diner and then the inside of his motel room.

“Morning,” he nods back, and then flashes a quick smile at the girl. He’s about to excuse himself and get the hell out of here when the girl’s face brightens, looking at something over Dean’s shoulder.

“Hungry?” Jax asks as he moves past Dean, head turning to catch Dean’s eye.

Dean isn’t, not really, but he falls in beside Jax on the barstools anyway.

“Who’s the girl?” Dean asks after she’s poured both of them steaming mugs of coffee.

Jax glances over to where she’s bending over to get something out from underneath the bar. “Charlie. One of the sweetbutts.”

Dean arches a brow at the term.

“Women who hang out with the Sons. They help out and perform other services.”

There’s no mistaking Jax’s meaning. Huh. Biker groupies. 

“Why? You interested?” Jax asks, smile tugging the edges of his mouth.

“No.” Dean shakes his head and closes a hand around his coffee. Up until last night, Dean hasn’t been interested in much of anything that wasn’t killing evil motherfuckers, and what he _is_ interested in besides that isn’t what’s bending over at the other end of the bar.

Another girl emerges from the kitchen, carrying plates with bacon, eggs and buttered toast, and Dean finds he’s hungrier than he’d thought. When they’re done eating, Bobby takes off for work and Charlie disappears into the kitchen with their dirty dishes. The clubhouse is quiet except for the occasional loud bang from the kitchen, and Dean guesses everyone else must’ve already left for the day.

Jax lights up a cigarette and turns partway around on the stool to look at Dean. “What do you think about staying here? Temporary home base?”

Dean’s brows rise in surprise as he considers that. “Why?”

“If any of those things show up again, I’d feel a lot better with you and your gun close by.” It’s a simple enough answer.

“Do I have to make breakfast and put out?”

Jax laughs, shaking his head. “Not unless you want to.”

“I’ll think about it.” Dean nods. “Meantime, we should talk about protecting this place.”

"Give me a second." Dean rises from his seat and walks to the parking lot, turning the key to the trunk of the Impala, retrieving his dad’s journal from inside. He takes a moment, looking at the battered cover, contemplating what he's about to do. If he's gonna do this, he might as well do it all the way. He shuts the lid of the trunk and carries the journal back inside the clubhouse.

“My dad’s journal,” he explains as he sets it down on the bar, and Jax shoots him an odd look before he settles in. 

They spend the next hour or so going over everything his dad recorded about demons, everything that’s been added since he died. Seeing Sam’s handwriting and sketches leaves a tight ache in Dean’s throat, but he pushes past it. By the time they’re done, Jax has got a look in his eyes Dean’s all too familiar with. 

“All this,” Dean tilts his head in the direction of the journal, “and you still don’t believe me?”

“Look. I know what I saw—we _all_ know what we saw. But painting symbols like this on the walls? You’ve got to know how crazy that looks. The club’ll never go for it. There are other people that come through here besides us.”

“We can hide most of it. Not the salt, but the rest of it.”

“You got any more of those guns?” Jax asks after a moment.

“It’s one of a kind. Besides, if we wanna find out what these fuckers are after, we need to catch one. That’s gonna take a devil’s trap.” Dean taps a finger against the design on the page. “It has to be big enough to hold them. We can paint it under the rug in front of the front door.”

Jax is deep in thought, staring at the symbol Dean’s pointing at, light painting his skin and hair in shades of gold. He shakes his head back and forth fractionally. “I’ll think about it.”

Dean shuts the book with a hollow thump. “If you’re not gonna protect this place, I’m not staying here.”

Jax nods his understanding. “How do I get in touch with you?”

They exchange information, and then Jax claps him on the shoulder, rising to use the bathroom. His hand stays just a beat longer than it should. “See you later.”

Dean watches him disappear through the door, and then gathers up the journal. He’s within reaching distance of the front door when it swings open.

The woman that walks inside is tall—so tall she can almost look Dean in the eye---with long, dark hair frosted in chunks. She’s got be over fifty, but she’s built like a brick house, slender and fit from the three inch heels on her feet to her skin tight black jeans, to her incredibly impressive rack. Her dark eyes are sharp as they look Dean up and down slowly, lips pursing around the end of a cigarette.

“Whose date were _you_ last night?” she asks when she’s done looking him over.

The bluntness of her assessment leaves him surprised for an instant. Dean isn’t sure who she is, but the way she carries herself—poised and perfectly in control—says she belongs here.

“I was just on my way out,” Dean says, offering her a smile. Her eyes fall to the book in his hand, scrutinizing, and Dean tightens his fingers around it.

“There a fire somewhere?” she asks, still standing in his way.

Dean can tell a casual answer isn’t going to get her out of his way, and short of physically moving her, he’s stuck. “I’m Dean.”

“Gemma,” she answers.

Jax’s mom. He doesn’t know what he expected, didn’t have any expectations until now, but if he’d guessed… he wouldn’t have guessed she’d be like this.

She takes another drag off her cigarette, eyes sharpening even tighter on him. “So what are you doing here, Dean?” 

“Thought I might try out a career as a sweetbutt,” he says with one of his most smart-assed, charming smiles. 

She looks him up and down one more time, deliberately, unimpressed. “You’re pretty enough. But you don’t look like you’re hiding a pussy inside those jeans.” She pauses for a second, tongue rolling against the inside of her jaw, considering him. “Are you?”

Dean’s still trying to process the fact that she actually said that when she takes another step toward him, heels clicking against the tile. “So what are you really doing here?”

Dean understands two things then; one, there’s no truthful answer he can give, and two, it wouldn’t matter what he said, anyway. 

“Pretty sure no matter how I answer that, I’m coming out on the losing side.” 

Her brows rise as she regards him, breath of smoke exhaled against the air. “Pretty _and_ smart.” 

Jesus, she’s pushing it, and Dean’s slightly impressed.

The door to the bathroom opens, and Dean can hear Jax’s footsteps coming up behind him.

“Lay off, mom. It’s club business.”

Gemma looks at Dean for another long second, and then she takes another drag off her cigarette, turning sideways and brushing past him. Dean turns to watch her walk away, her eyes still on him until she turns away, eventually vanishing into the kitchen.

“You weren’t kidding,” Dean says after a moment.

“Yeah,” Jax nods, squinting into the distance. “She’s always been protective of the club, but since my stepdad died a few months back, she’s gotten worse.”

Damn, this guy’s lost as much family as he has. “What happened?”

“Motorcycle accident. His hands were going bad. Better that way. If he’d lived much longer, he’d have had to step down. He’d have hated retirement. The club was his life.”

“Family business,” Dean says, thoughtful. “So he was president before you?”

“Yeah.”

“And your dad before him?”

Jax nods.

“Sounds as deadly as my line of work,” Dean remarks.

Jax raises one shoulder. “The road takes us all, eventually. One way or the other.”

The words ring home with a truth Dean recognizes all too well. He nods, lips pressing together in a bitter line. “If it doesn’t get you while you’re on it, the bottle or the bastards you pissed off along the way will.”

_\--“Promise me, Dean.” Sam’s face, barely visible in the faint light, twisted with worry and fierce hope across the passenger seat of the Impala.--_

Jax is staring at him, surprise and something else Dean can’t quite read in his expression.

“No social security checks in my future, either,” Dean says off Jax’s look, his mouth twisting in a thin smile.

Jax squints at him thoughtfully, and then he nods, gaze trailing down to the book in Dean’s hand.

“You got another copy of that?”

Of course Dean does. He’s got photocopies of it stashed across the country in lockboxes under various assumed names, plus a couple stashed at Bobby’s and a single copy in the trunk of the Impala. Dean sizes him up, gauging how serious he is, debating whether or not he’s willing to trust Jax with it. It’s an edited version, all of his dad’s personal thoughts removed, just a monster guide, and there’s not much Jax could do with it except convince the Sons that Dean’s crazy, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s got that part covered all on his own.

“You sure you wanna know?”

Jax’s eyes are dark, troubled, but he nods. “If any of this is possible… I _need_ to know.”

Dean guesses he can understand that.

 

\-----

 

Jax shakes off the way he’s feeling as he walks with Dean out to the Impala. The sun is shining bright in the clear blue sky, gleaming off the black lines and curves of her, and Jax has to admit, for something that isn’t a bike, it’s a sweet ride. Not the most inconspicuous ride for a guy who’s supposed to be dead, but nice.

“Nice wheels,” he says, appreciative. “Don’t see many of these anymore. What’s she running? V8-396?”

“V8-327,” Dean answers in a tone that says he’s vaguely surprised.

“I grew up working in the garage, too,” Jax says with a faint smile. “You do all your own work on her?”

“Absolutely,” Dean affirms with pride as the key to the trunk clicks into place and he turns it over.

Jax forgets whatever he was about to say as the lid to the trunk opens.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters.

The trunk of the car is filled to the motherfucking brim with almost every kind of weapon Jax has ever seen. From here he can see at least three machetes, knives, an arrow, a spearhead, two silver spikes, several throwing stars, a revolver-type grenade launcher, two flare guns, two tasers, two double-barrel sawed-off shotguns, and more pistols than he’s seen outside a gun run or the Sons’ combined personal stash. There’s other stuff—bags of salt, some black velvet bags, a piece of ivory or maybe bone with symbols etched into it.

No shit this guy’s fucking dangerous.

“You expecting a war?” Jax asks. He arches a wry brow at Dean, but he’s only half-kidding. “This much firepower, you could outfit a fucking army.”

“Tools of the trade,” Dean says offhandedly as he leans inside the trunk, so casual Jax can hear the implied shrug—too casual for someone who hasn’t been doing this forever. Dean’s completely at ease, here, rummaging around in his arsenal—more comfortable here than anywhere else Jax has seen him so far and it sets off a tinge of unease. Tig’s the only person Jax has ever seen that enjoys his weapons anywhere near as much as Dean obviously does, and much as Jax loves Tig, Tig’s a twisted motherfucker. Whatever his gut is telling him, for all he knows, Dean’s a mass murderer, or at the very least a serial killer.

But he doesn’t believe that.

_So what about the monsters? You believe him about that?_

The fact that he’s standing here asking for a fucking monster encyclopedia should be answer enough.

Dean’s hands are closing around a black firebox in the far back corner of the trunk, key produced from somewhere Jax can’t quite catch before he opens it, taking out a book bound with ringed bindings. Jax finds himself momentarily distracted by the way Dean’s hands move, quick and sure and precise as Dean puts the leather journal inside it and re-locks the box.

The trunk slams shut, and then Dean’s turning to look at him with eyes that seem to cut right through him. His fingers tap out a quick rhythm against the cover of the book, and there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at him, something besides obvious concern and deliberation. 

“You sure?” he asks. “It’s a lot to know.”

Jax isn’t sure he believes any of this. But if there’s a grain of truth to any of it… if it’s possible there could be other _things_ threatening Charming, he needs to know what they are and how to fight them.

He nods once, and Dean nods back, holding out the book with a slow movement of his hand.

“Thanks,” Jax says, taking it from him.

“See if you thank me later,” Dean returns evenly.

Jax is struck by the way Dean looks him right in the eye when he says it. Jax doesn’t trust him, he’s only known the guy less than a day, but he seems so fucking honest. 

_\--No social security checks in my future, either.--_

“Jax.” Tig is calling him from the garage. 

Dean nods before Jax can speak. “You should read it first, before you decide if you want to share it with the rest of the club,” he says, beginning to move around the car.

He watches Dean climb in behind the wheel of the car and backs up a few paces, giving Dean room to turn her out of the parking space. He watches the car kick up dust as she heads to the gate, thinking about the book in his hand, the expression on Dean’s face, and then turns, walking toward the garage.

 

*

 

Jax is in the garage office, searching the file cabinet for the invoice to a particular vehicle when his mom walks in. The club does the car work, but she runs this place, knows where everything is, and he turns, walking to meet her.

“Where’s the invoice for the Opel Kadett we hauled in here last week?”

“Too bad your friend couldn’t stay,” she comments as she moves past him.

Sure, the car invoice she won’t ask about, but Dean, she will. One corner of Jax’s mouth curls humorlessly as he watches her walk to the file cabinet and pick up the box on top of it. He doesn’t say anything.

She sits down at the desk, utterly composed as she begins peeling back the sheets of paper inside the box with her long fingernails. “Looked like you two were pretty intense by the car.”

“Jesus, mom.” Jax shakes his head, exasperated, mouth thinning as he takes a step forward. “It’s club business. And stop spying on me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m still your mother,” she tells him, looking at him with that stern, stubborn look he knows all too well. “He’s hiding something.”

Jax sighs and shakes his head.

“He’s trouble, Jax.”

Jesus, a minute alone with Dean and already his mom is on him like a bloodhound. Jax is just glad she couldn’t see into the trunk from inside the clubhouse. “If he is, I’ll deal with it.”

She looks at him for a long moment, and then looks back at the box, fingers reaching decisively into it and pulling out a sheet of paper. She stands up, pushing the chair back with her body, and walks to him, one hand placed against his cheek, other holding up the invoice. 

“Just be careful, baby,” she says, concern creeping into her expression as she looks at him. 

Jax swallows and nods, taking the invoice from her.

The corners of her mouth turn up in a faint, sad, proud smile as she leans to kiss him on the cheek. 

 

*

 

It isn’t until late afternoon that Jax can sit down in his room above the clubhouse, book opened across the bedspread, first blank page turned back.

 _Journal of John Winchester_ the second page reads. 

John’s a common enough name, it’s not weird that Jax’s dad’s name was John, too. But the fact that Jax’s dad was a marine like Dean’s, that they both served in Vietnam, and both of them died before their time…

And that they both left behind books like an inheritance to their sons. Jax has his own dad’s chronicle tucked away at home. And both of them have lost little brothers.

_The road takes us all, eventually._

It’s just kinda weird. That’s all.

He takes a quick flip through the pages, pausing to stare at the occasional drawing or two. Beyond the fact that if any the pictures of these monsters are real, the world’s a seriously fucking scary place, it’s obvious that this journal has been written by more than one person. There are three different, distinct styles of handwriting. One is clearly John’s in the beginning, carrying though two-thirds of the book, but there’s a new section added by what he’d guess was Dean’s little brother, and finally Dean’s script filling up the final pages.

He thumbs back through the pages, head shaking back and forth.

Demons. Vampires. Werewolves. Ghosts. All the classics plus a ton of others he’s never heard of.

This has to be bullshit. He sets the book aside and digs into his pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes and lighting one.

And if it is bullshit? What does that mean? That Dean’s only half-insane? Because everything Jax saw happen with the Calaveras is all explained right here in this journal. Why they didn’t die when the Sons shot them, why only Dean’s gun could kill them, the black smoke that came out of them. And the one thing he never mentioned; how the thing flung him across the room and held him there without touching him at all. He’d thought maybe he’d missed something, with everything happening so fast, but…

He takes a deep drag from his cigarette, feeling the smoke curl inside his lungs.

Jax is sure Dean _can_ lie—he’d have to be able to, living the kind of life he has—but he hasn’t seen anything but raw honesty in him.

When he adds two and two… well at least demons seem real. And if that’s possible… what about the rest?

He sighs out a smoke-laden breath, fingertips pressing against his forehead.

 

\-----

 

The emptiness of the motel room still gets to Dean. The lack of Sam’s fingers tapping across the keyboard of his laptop, the absence of his snoring as Dean lies against the hard, queen mattress, trying to fall asleep.

Two queens. He still asks for two queens. Empty bed like a wound in his chest, the last spark of hopeless stupidity left in him, like just renting it might keep Sam with him somehow. It’s sick and it’s stupid, but he doesn’t much care. Eyes focused on the smooth, blankets across from him, he can almost see Sam stretched out on the bed, hazel eyes heavy lidded, focused downward on the lattice of his fingers against his lap.

_Sam turns his head and meets Dean’s eyes._

_“You like him.”_

It’s all Sam says, but it’s enough.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to feel what those words evoke in him. 

Sam moves across the space between them, hand touching him, skin freezing cold against Dean’s shoulder, frost snaking down through him.

“Don’t,” Dean whispers, eyes blinking open.

The bed across from his is unmarred in its tight perfection of blankets and sheets, as empty as it’s been for months.

The clock on the night stand between the beds reads 10:17PM, letters and numbers glaring a harsh red.

 

\-----

 

Jax pulls up the zipper on his jeans and flushes the toilet, sounds from the main room carrying to him. Several of the guys and a couple of sweetbutts are down there, having the time of their lives from the sounds of things. He should be there. He should join them. But he can’t get what he’d read and seen earlier out of his head.

The bathroom window is cracked open a notch, letting in the cool night air, and off in the distance, he hears… something.

He turns to the window, eyes scanning the lot behind the clubhouse, dark silhouettes of trees rising beyond the patches of gravel revealed by moonlight. He raises his eyes to the moon, hanging heavy and nearly full in the night sky.

There’s nothing out there. Jesus. He’s on edge.

He starts to turn away when he hears the sound again, growing steadily closer.

 

\-----

 

Dean’s phone buzzes at 11:08, text message notification popping up on the screen when he pulls it from his pocket.

He sits up immediately, covers falling away as he hits a button, brings the full message to the screen.

_Something I need to show you. Come to the clubhouse asap._

Jax.

It’s not like he was sleeping, anyway.

 

*

 

The clubhouse seems deserted when Dean walks inside, everything quiet and still except the soft click of pool table balls striking. Jax is leaning across his shot, dramatically lit by the light above the table, stub of a cigarette between his lips as he follows through. He isn't wearing his leather, just a t-shirt that has the word 'Son' printed across it in faded gray letters.

“Everything okay?” Dean asks, eyes taking in the rest of the room.

“Yeah,” Jax nods, jaw flexing as he takes a last drag off his cigarette, rising with liquid grace and turning, stubbing the butt into an ashtray on the rail behind him. “Everything’s fine,” he adds, blowing out a last breath of smoke as he looks at Dean. He tilts his head in the direction of the rooms upstairs and says, “Just something I want you to see.”

Dean can’t get a read on him, can’t tell if this is good news or bad, but that’s not _completely_ unusual, considering Dean barely knows him.

“Anything good?”

Jax’s mouth curls in a humorless smile, settling the pool cue into its slot. “Is it ever?”

Dean tilts one head toward his shoulder in a gesture of acknowledgment. “Almost never.”

Jax leads the way to the doorway to the upstairs, confident swagger on full display. Dean trails behind him, up the stairs and down the hall to the room Jax disappeared into last night. Dean assumes it must be Jax’s, briefly wondering if Jax even has another home. Familiar tension winds tight in his chest as he considers the implications, but he follows anyway, because

_\--You like him--_

whatever this is about, he can handle it.

Jax opens the door, stepping aside and waiting for him, and Dean hesitates a moment before he steps across the threshold. There’s only one place close enough to sit down, and he keeps walking to the bed, eyes taking the room in with quick glances before settling on the photocopied journal lying open on one corner of the mattress. That must be what Jax wants to talk about, he thinks as his fingers slip surreptitiously beneath the pillow closest to him, stretching, feeling, relaxing and settling as they encounter nothing beneath.

It’s paranoid, and he goddamned well knows it, but new habits die hard.

It all happens inside the span of a few seconds, and behind him, the door closes. He turns, mind still considering the passenger side pillow, but he doesn’t have enough time for that. And besides, Jax is looking at him… eyes filled with heat, almost like he’s hungry. 

Dean pushes back his discomfort, taking a step forward. He clears his throat as he focuses on the subject at hand. “So what did you want to show me?”

There’s a moment, just a fraction of a second, where Jax’s expression slips, and Dean’s guard comes up, hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

Jax moves, and Dean brings up one arm, reaches for him with the other, already starting to turn—

Jax knocks his arm aside like shaking off a fly, hand seizing Dean around the throat, spinning and shoving him against the wall hard enough that he feels something in his spine creak with the pressure.

God fucking dammit.

Jax moves closer, weight settling in against the length of Dean’s body, face distorted in an unnaturally cruel smile, and Dean knows, even before Jax’s eyes flash black.

“Fucking… demon prick,” Dean gasps.

“Female, sweetheart,” it grins.

“Sorry. Fucking… demon _cunt_ ,” Dean corrects, wheezing.

“So crude,” the demon tsks, mock-admonishing, hand closing into a brief fist around Dean’s throat, cutting off his air completely for a few long seconds before it relaxes enough for him to pull in a ragged breath. 

“The bikers are a worry, but you’re the real problem, Dean,” it croons. “If anybody can fuck this whole thing up, it’s you.”

Dean tests his footing against the wall, shifting his body to the right, then the left, looking for weaknesses in the demon’s grip. “So…” he coughs. “I’m special?” His voice sounds like it’s coming out of a meat grinder. “Do... tell.”

“Such a smartass,” the demon hisses, Jax’s mouth grinning close to his, hands shoving Dean harder against the wall. “I should teach you some manners. This body’s _really_ enjoying feeling you squirm, Dean. Maybe I should have a little fun with you first, huh?” the demon asks, Jax’s lips curling into a sneer. The hand around his throat contracts another notch, body shoved tight against the wall as the demon pushes a thigh between his legs, grinding up into Dean.

“Like that, don’t you?” the demon demands with Jax’s mouth, lips moving against Dean’s cheek, voice husky. “I can feel you getting hard, Dean.” The thigh between his legs grinds against his cock again. “Getting off on this while I’m choking you… never would’ve guessed you were such a slut.”

His mind understands this isn’t really Jax, but his mind is fading fast with lack of oxygen, and all he can feel is Jax pressed up against him, grinding into him, smell and feel of him filling up Dean’s senses. A moan struggles up from his chest, lodging behind the hand around his throat as demon thrusts against him, world beginning to spin and turn gray.

“Oh, Dean,” it purrs, Jax’s chest rumbling against him. “The way you’re loving this, I think I’m gonna have to fuck you before I kill you.”

The iron bands around his throat loosen a notch and he drags in a wheezing breath, room spinning faster as the demon whirls him around, body falling on him and pinning him to the bed. It keeps a hand on his neck, barely letting him breathe, other hand thumbing the button on his jeans open.

“Gonna choke you out on the end of this cock,” the demon promises, lips curving in a smile against his ear, tongue flashing out to taste.

Dean goes still then. Slowly, he lifts his arms over his head, letting them rest against the bed, and the demon chuckles, pulling back, blue eyes sparkling coldly as they look at him. 

“Want it, don’t you?” It lifts up to look at him a little better. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” it smirks, shaking its head. “You Winchesters always have had a hard-on for dying.”

Dean thrusts one hand underneath the pillow and brings it out lightning fast, blade of the knife flashing against the demon’s throat, tip pressing into the soft skin under Jax’s jaw.

“Get out of him,” Dean snarls as the demon freezes. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Its gaze tightens on him, wicked and nasty. 

“And if I don’t, you kill me,” Dean grates, lips curving in a cold smile. “Sweetheart, there’s only one person I’d die for, and he’s already dead.”

The demon stares at him with Jax’s eyes a moment longer, flash of indecision like its weighing whether or not it could break Dean’s neck before he shoves the knife in… and then Jax’s head snaps back, black cloud pouring from his mouth.

Dean grabs Jax’s shoulder, rolling his body over on the bed as the last of the demon leaves him, fingers already feeling for Jax’s pulse. Split second before he finds it, beat steady beneath his fingertips, and relaxes a notch.

Fuck that was close.

 

\-----

 

When Jax opens his eyes, he feels like he got hit by an eighteen wheeler, head on fire, mouth dry as a bone. He feels like he drank too much on top of getting baked out of his head the night before… except… by everything he can tell, it’s still the night before. There’s a sense of distance to his recent memory, like staring up at fragments through rippling water. He remembers his lips moving, speaking words he didn’t say, seeing through eyes that weren’t his but were. The way he’d felt cramped and crammed, shoved into a tiny corner while someone else…

Or maybe some _thing_ else.

“You okay?” Dean’s sitting on the edge of the bed, intense green eyes focused on him, copy of his dad’s journal spread open across his lap.

“I’ll live.” He’s not sure he’s okay, especially if what just happened is what he _thinks_ just happened, but he’s alive.

Dean leans down, picking up a water bottle from the floor beside the bed. Cracking it open, he hands it to Jax.

It’s barely sweating, and Jax knows Dean pulled it from the mini-fridge in the room just a couple minutes ago, at most. Jax tilts it back, bottle collapsing as he drains half of it. He pulls it from his mouth and takes a moment, just lying there against the bed, bottled water held loosely, balanced in one hand against the mattress.

“Is that… what being possessed feels like?” he asks, tilting his chin against his chest to look at Dean.

Dean nods. 

“Hell of a party,” Jax’s voice cracks, struggling across the words as he sits up. “How long was I out?”

“A few minutes.” Dean’s voice is rougher than usual, even huskier, and suddenly, the image of his hand around Dean’s throat comes into sharp focus. Dean pressed between him and the wall, his thigh rubbing up between Dean’s legs.

 _Shit._ “I…”

Dean shakes his head without waiting for Jax to finish. “Wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t you.”

Not the hand around Dean’s throat, not the body against him, but even tucked away in the background he couldn’t help but feel the way Dean had felt, hard and lean and muscular, pressed up against him. 

Jesus. He practically just raped and strangled the guy to death. He needs to get his head out of his ass.

Dean leans closer then, spreading out the journal on the bed beside Jax, hand smoothing over the page. He’s still too aware of Dean, Dean’s face leaning in so close, memory of Dean underneath him crowding out everything else in his mind.

“It’s an anti-demon-possession tattoo,” Dean explains, pointing to a hand-drawn symbol on the page. Jax skims the lines and curves of it, and then he lifts his eyes, meeting Dean’s.

“This is why it needed you to kill me instead of possessing me.” In the dim light, Dean reaches up, pulling the collar of his shirt down, showing the same symbol inked into the skin just above his heart.

Jax stares for a moment, taking in the black lines of the design, the cut of Dean’s chest muscles, the jut of his collar bone. And then his hand rises, finger running across the lines of the pentagram in the center of the sun. Dean goes still, tensing like a bow string pulled taut, but he doesn’t pull back, faint tremor of a muscle in his jaw, edge of Jax’s nail scraping lightly over his skin.

Their eyes meet across the silence between them, locking with a shock that dances down Jax’s still-shaky nerves. The air between them feels filled with thunder, lazy electrical charge of a storm rising up, and Jax doesn’t know what the hell’s wrong with him that he’s thinking about doing this now, doesn’t know what the hell’s wrong with him that he’s just sitting here when he’s this close to Dean, touching his bare skin.

He barely knows this guy, not to mention the thing inside his body almost just raped Dean. But his fingertips against Dean’s skin, the way it sends sparks shuddering down to his belly, makes his heart pound a little louder in his ears…

So much for getting his head out of his ass.

The look in Dean’s eyes is as much a warning as it is an invitation, uncertainty and the same want Jax feels churning in his belly reflected there. 

“I know I almost just…” Jax starts, voice husky.

“That wasn’t you.”

He can feel the thud of Dean’s heartbeat against his ribs, the way it’s picking up speed, hand sliding up Dean’s chest, fingers rounding the curve of his throat, curling against the back of his neck. “It’s me, now.”

Dean barely seems to breathe, body held taut for an instant—and then Dean moves, mouth crashing into Jax’s, hot mess of lips and tongue and teeth. Jax opens for him, rushes to meet him, fingers gripping the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him even closer. 

“So we don’t need to talk about this,” Jax breathes, words almost lost inside Dean’s mouth. 

“You wanna talk about it, find a girl,” Dean growls back, teeth closing around Jax’s lower lip.

Jax laughs, and the world narrows to the heat of Dean’s mouth against his, the way his tongue slides against Dean’s, fingers tightening through the short strands of his hair and slipping through. Dean’s hands find better purchase, tangling in Jax’s hair, weight thrusting forward and shoving Jax down against the bed, body molding against his, and fuck it all, fuck thinking about any of it, because Dean doesn’t mind at _all_ , arching into him, hands sliding down, around Jax’s body, gripping his ass, hips grinding down into him.

Jax grinds back, grunting at the feel of Dean’s cock, hard line rubbing against his through their jeans, fingers grabbing the longer strands of hair at the top of his skull, yanking back, other hand pulling Dean’s jaw open wider, kissing up into him. Nimble fingers working at the button and zipper of his jeans, thumbs sliding inside, shoving them down, Jax arching up into the tug, pants pulling away with a shrug of his hips. And he’d thought he’d want to be the one in control, be the one to do this, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters are Dean’s hands against him, jeans dragged down over his calves, ripped away before Dean sits up on his knees, strips his shirt over his head, muscles in his chest flexing, and Jesus Christ...

Body tight and lithely muscled, thin, but strong, hands falling to the button of his jeans, and if this is what Dean wants, he’ll do it, even if he never has before. The fire in Dean’s eyes, the way he moves, shucking out of his jeans, the way he feels, hard naked body pressing down against Jax, hips rolling into his, hand caught in his hair, mouth biting the line of his jaw.

 _Jesus._. Dean’s skin moving against his, hardness of his cock grinding against Jax’s, catching in the slick gathered at the tip, sliding back down the length, friction slipping as he grinds down again, sleek and perfect and fuck—

“Gonna... God, stop.”

Dean smirks, jerks his hips again, belly sliding over Jax’s dick just before his cock rides up the line, and Jax bites down hard against his lower lip. 

“Motherfucker,” he whispers, arching up into the feel.

“You asked for it,” Dean grins, hips shuddering against his.

“Pretty sure you started this,” Jax growls, fingers buried in the round, hard curve of Dean’s ass. He wants to flip him over, fuck him through the mattress, fuck him until that smirk slides off his face, until he begs and pleads just like Jax wants to right now. 

Dean pulls back, slow arch of his back as he sits up, looking down at Jax, knees planted against the bed, spread out across him, and Jax takes a deep breath, waiting for Dean to move, to spread him open. Dean pushes two fingers inside his mouth, sucking on them, and Jax’s breath catches in his chest, caught between the hotness of Dean sucking on them and anticipation of what Dean’s going to do with them. He can’t look away, couldn’t even if he wanted to, Jesus, the way the line of Dean’s throat flexes as he sucks, lips wrapped tight around his knuckles, easing them in and out of his mouth, glistening wet.

He slides his fingers from his mouth and reaches down, around his body, and Jax sucks in a breath, steeling himself, welcoming and wanting.

But Dean doesn’t touch him, doesn’t do anything but stare down at him until his eyelids flutter shut, head tilting back, hips working a slow rhythm.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Jax tilts his chin down, and watches Dean fuck himself against his own fingers, two of them moving in and out, slow, hips riding down hard against the feel. Slick pulling from the rim, stretching in thin strands against the tips before they push back inside.

Jax reaches for the night table next to his bed, yanking out a foil package, hands shaking as he rips it open, stroking the condom down the length of his cock. There’s lube in there, too, and the feel of his own hand stoking slickness down his cock sends a shudder rippling through him.

“Fuck. Do it,” Jax gasps.

“Impatient…. motherfucker…” Dean grates back, hips riding back against his palm. There’s a curl to his mouth that Jax thinks might be arrogance, but he really doesn’t fucking care, because Dean’s obviously as gone as he is, fingers pulling from his body, hands gripping Jax’s hips.

Hands braced, Dean rolls his body chest to ass, sliding down the length of Jax’s dick, hot, tight muscles clenching around the head of his cock, cutting off anything like thought, breath stuttering his chest. Heart beating out a frantic rhythm as Dean sinks down to the base, bodies meeting, thumbs thrusting inside the curve of his hip bones, and Jax can’t do anything but mutter out a curse, pulling him in closer, tighter. 

“Fuck yeah,” he grunts, hips thrusting, fingers digging into the slick, round curve of Dean’s ass.

Dean doesn’t answer with words, body twisting up then down around Jax’s cock, hands splayed across his collarbone, thumbs pressing at the hollow of Jax’s throat, body sweating out against the effort, muscles dancing beneath his skin, flexing and rolling. He feels so good, squeezing Jax like a vise, riding up, so hot, every muscle in his body etched out, glittering with sweat.

“Yeah, like that,” he breathes out, body shuddering up to meet Dean’s, Dean twisting as they hit. Hands trembling as Dean shudders, breathing out a curse like a hiss, body pulling upward, driving down, stomach muscles clenching as he hits the bottom and thrusts his hips forward, motion sending sparks shooting through Jax’s head, crashing into heat coiling in his belly. He isn’t going to last long like this, watching through half-lidded eyes as Dean rides him with that perfect, deadly body.

“Fuck,” Dean growls, shoving down into Jax with a shiver, hips wriggling as he hits, nails cutting into Jax’s skin, lower lip caught between his teeth for an instant before he falls against Jax, chests and mouths colliding, Dean’s hips picking up speed.

Teeth catching and scraping against his mouth, tongue flashing inside, swirling against his, Dean’s inner muscles clenching him, riding him right to the edge. Shit, he’s going to come, driving up to meet Dean, fingers buried in the muscles in Dean’s ass, feeling every thrust, inside and out, barely holding on.

“Godammit,” Jax groans, hips shoving into Dean, fingers flexing, head falling back as it hits him all at once, shooting through him like lightning, every nerve and muscle on fire as he comes, buried inside Dean’s body, fingers trembling, trying to hold him there. Dean bites Jax’s lower lip, hips yanking from Jax’s hold, riding him until he’s lost in it, quivering and shaking.

Jax comes down slowly to the awareness of two green eyes glittering at him through the dim light, something like dark amusement flickering in them.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and the way he breathes out the words like he’s trying not to pant, the glazed look in his eyes, don’t match his casual tone.

Jax pulls out of Dean and pushes up, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and throwing him down against the bed. Dean only fights back for an instant, long enough for Jax to slide down his body, lips closing around the head of his cock, velvety, salty skin smooth inside his mouth as he rides it down the line. Dean groans out a string of four letter words that would make a sailor stop in admiration, whole body tensing, hands gripping Jax’s hair in desperation, hips rising, cock shoving deep as he comes, spurting jaggedly down Jax’s throat.

Jax swallows hard, taking it all, keeps going until Dean shivers, hands yanking through the strands of Jax’s hair, trying to pull him away. He takes his time, licking a line up the center vein, tongue flashing against the tip before he pulls off.

“ _You_ okay?” Jax asks, smirk curving his mouth, staring up at Dean.

“Asshole,” Dean breathes out, slinging his forearm across his eyes. The word might hold more weight if his voice didn’t shake when he said it. Dean lies there, trying to catch his breath, eyes covered by his arm, and Jax moves alongside him, head pointing the opposite direction. He rolls the condom off his cock and knots it, leaning to toss it into the trashcan before reaching down to grab his jeans from the floor. He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, exhaling as he leans back against the pillows, eyes traveling up the length of Dean’s body, Dean’s muscles shiny with sweat, cock lying limp against his belly, one knee drawn up, and Jax thinks he might be able to go another round, just looking at him.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jax asks, still smirking.

Dean sits up, muscles flexing in his belly before he turns, putting his feet on the floor. 

“Like you’ve got room to gloat,” Dean shoots back. But his voice is slightly hoarse, and the muscles in his upper back are tense.

Jax had meant it as a joke, but… shit. “Was that…” he makes a quick motion with the hand holding his cigarette, tiny smoke ring rising from the end of the arc, punctuating the words, “your first time doing that?”

Dean lets out a short, almost bitter bark of laughter. 

“No. It’s… just been a while,” Dean says, hand running up the line of his jaw. “Longer than I like to think about.”

“You want a smoke?” Jax offers him the pack.

“Never been one of my vices of choice.”

“Seems like it’d be a lot less deadly than anything else in your life.”

Dean lets out another burst of laughter, and Jax notes the way he relaxes fractionally. “No shit, right?”

There’s a pause between them, Dean seeming to debate for a moment, and then he shrugs.

“Fuck it. Gimme one.”

Jax pulls a cigarette from the pack, watching as Dean puts it between his lips, leaning in as Jax lights it for him, drawing the smoke slowly into his mouth and puffing it out.

Jax sets the ashtray down between them on the rumpled bedspread.

“So are you convinced you need protect this place now?” Dean asks after a moment.

Jax exhales a stream of smoke, shaking his head ruefully. “Yeah, I fucking get it. Devil traps and anti-possession tattoos all around.”

“Seriously?” Dean asks, arching a brow at him.

“Not like the Sons can’t take a little more ink,” Jax shrugs.

Dean’s glances at the tattoo on Jax’s forearm and then takes a shallow puff off his cigarette. “Think they’ll go for it?”

“They will after I tell them what happened.”

Dean nods slowly, processing that. “And they’ll believe you, just like that?”

“They’re my brothers.” It might not be quite that simple in execution, but that’s what it’ll come down to—that’s what it always comes down to.

Dean looks down at the ashtray, elbows resting against his knees, shoulders shifting as he swallows, nodding once. He stubs the end of his half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray, and turns, starting to rise from the bed. “I need to clean up.”

For a split second, Jax doesn’t understand the sudden change, and then his last words replay themselves in his head.

Fuck.

“Hey.” He sits up, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. And what the fuck is he going to say? ‘I’m sorry about your brother’ isn’t going to mean shit, and will probably earn him a punch in the face besides.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says, instead. It isn’t a hell of a lot, but it’s what he’s got to offer.

Dean hesitates on the edge of the bed, seemingly frozen for a beat. There’s a long silence and then he nods again, indication only that he’s heard Jax as he gets to his feet. Light shimmers over Dean’s muscles as he bends to pick up his clothes, amulet he wears around his throat swinging outward, light reflecting brightly against burnished copper.

Beautiful isn’t a word Jax uses when it comes to men, but Dean is as he stands up straight, perfect musculature and sharp profile cut from light and shadow. He gives Jax one last glance across his shoulder, and then turns, bare feet padding toward the bathroom.

Jax watches the door shut and takes a long last drag off his cigarette, squinting thoughtfully against the rising smoke.

 

\-----

 

Dean just needs a minute, that’s all—a minute and maybe a quick rinse in the sink. That’s all he’s thinking as he walks to the bathroom. Shit, it was just sex, it’s not like it’s…

_\--his brother’s eyes meeting his, feet standing at the edge of the Pit--_

…the end of the world or anything.

Dean drops his clothes on the floor, sets the Colt on the sink. He stands inside the bathroom for long moments after the door shuts, gaze lost in his reflection directly in front of him. The amulet is the only thing he’s wearing, face in the mirror glowing like only the freshly fucked can, weight of memory crushing him.

God. Fuck. Dean closes his eyes, sucking in a breath.

_\--“ Keep it to remember me,” Sam pleads, voice a ragged whisper. Huge hand, so familiar, cupping his face._

_“Okay,” Dean breathes through the raggedness in his throat. “Okay, Sammy.”_

_“I know things aren’t like they used to be between us…” Sam trails off, eyes glittering with unshed tears, and fuck, Dean can’t handle this, never has been able to handle Sam with tears in his eyes._

_“Shut up,” Dean whispers, hand wrapping the leather cord of the amulet around his fist. “Everything… is the same way it always was.”_

_It’s a lie. It’s a lie and it’s true, on the deepest level Dean knows he’ll ever feel. Nothing’s changed, and everything has._

_“I love you, Dean.”_

_Dean feels his heart catch in his throat, and he wants to say **God, don’t** , or **You fucking girl** or something—anything else besides what he feels. It’s too much, knowing all of this, knowing what Sam’s going to do, knowing that when this is done, Sam will be **gone**._

_He can’t do it. He can’t._

_But Sam won’t let go, both of his hands grabbing Dean’s face now, forcing Dean to look up at him, forcing Dean to see the truth there, the finality of it all._

_This is the end._

_“You know I love you,” Dean whispers, words cracking, fracturing his chest. What they cost him—that he **has** to give them now, left with no time for anything else—is more than he count. More than heaven or hell can ever repay._

_“Don’t,” Sam whispers, and Dean doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to give in to the feeling inside him, wants to be strong for Sam, be his big brother. He doesn’t know how to do that, not tonight—tomorrow he’ll wake up and they’ll do what they have to do, but tonight—_

_His hands clasp Sam’s face between them, amulet charm pressing into Sam’s cheek as Dean pulls him closer, mouths meeting in a desperate collision, and fuck, it’s been so long, all the distance and bullshit between them and Dean can’t even remember how they got here, why they ever let it make a damned bit of difference—_

The memory is almost physical, pain hitting hard, sinking deep. Claws slicing through the meat of his muscle, cutting down to the bone, lodging there.

Jesus. He just needs to breathe. Put his nose to the grindstone, push forward, everything coming at him too overwhelming to think about where he’s been. That’s how he’s been getting by for months—that and killing every evil motherfucker he can put at the other end of a bullet.

_“And what are you going to do when that runs out, Dean?”_

_He can see Sam, even with his eyes closed, long body leaning back against the edge of the sink next to him, arms folded across his chest._

Dean blinks his eyes open against the glaring light, and knows there’s only one answer to that question. 

_\--“Promise me, Dean.”--_

Fuck. He needs a shower and to get his head on straight. 

He knows he can make the first part happen. He’ll focus on that. One step at a time, one day at a time, killing one evil bastard at a time.

And what about Jax? What about that?

He doesn’t know. Feels too tired to know. 

One step at a time, he thinks, turning on the water to the shower.

 

*

 

Jax is standing next to the bed, bare to the tops of his hips, jeans hanging loosely there, as Dean opens the bathroom door. He looks up and sees Dean is dressed, understanding what that means. 

It’s not like he really expected Dean to stay. A guy like Dean doesn’t leave much, if anything, to chance. He’s not the trusting type. He’s the kind of guy who carries his gun into the shower with him. The kind that managed to conceal a knife under Jax’s pillow even though ‘Jax’ was in the room the whole time.

The kind of guy that _thought_ to hide a knife there, even though he was supposedly alone with Jax.

“You put this knife under the pillow while the demon was closing the door, didn’t you?” Jax turns the blade over in his hand, fine-honed edge catching the light.

Dean tilts his head to one side, half-raising a shoulder. “I was checking for hidden weapons, too.”

“Did you think I was…” Jax can’t say the word ‘possessed’ again. It sounds too fucking ridiculous. “A demon?”

“No,” Dean answers after a moment. “But I couldn’t rule out the possibility.”

No. No, he couldn’t. And he was right. Jax decides to let it go right there.

“Pretty _and_ smart,” Jax smirks, echoing Gemma’s words.

Dean snorts, and Jax can feel the tension between them ease back to almost nothing. 

“Whatever,” Dean says, deadpan. “I’m still not making you breakfast.”

Jax laughs, and then they both stop as if on cue, going still as statues, listening.

Soft scrape of a door against the floor downstairs, followed by the faint thunk of something that has to be a footstep.

“Is there anybody else here?” Dean’s voice drops instantly to a bare whisper.

“Demon made sure we’d be alone,” Jax whispers back, reaching into the nightstand drawer for his gun, sliding it through the arm of his t-shirt as he tugs it into place. 

When Jax turns, Dean’s got his own gun in his hand—the Colt, Jax recognizes from the drawings of it in John’s journal—holding up one hand at Jax.

“I’ll go down first, you follow me after a couple minutes.”

“No,” Jax shakes his head unequivocally. “This is Sam Crow’s place.” 

“And if it’s a demon?” Dean hisses back, annoyed.

Jax’s mouth tightens, jaw tensing as he’s forced to concede the point. “I follow you down now,” he tells Dean in no uncertain terms. He might have to concede, but that’s as far as he’s willing to go.

Dean shakes his head, exasperated, and then moves toward the door, pulling it open quietly. He leans, peering out around the edge of the door, and then steps out into the hall, one foot crossing over the other, bare feet silent against the polished wood. He takes the stairs just as silently and carefully, and Jax lets him get halfway down before he moves to the opposite hallway wall, shoulder braced against it.

Dean is at the bottom, shoulder leaned just inside the doorframe to the main room when Jax reaches the halfway point on the stairs.

Dean draws up his gun between both hands and steps out into the doorway, moving out of Jax’s sight.

“Help you all with something?” Dean asks, voice echoing off the walls as Jax takes the last of the steps as fast as he can, feet moving on autopilot to the places he knows are silent.

“Shit,” Dean hisses, and then there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor _hard_ \--no gunshots, and Jax _knows_.

He steps from the bottom stair, shoulder pressed just behind the door frame, taking a deep breath before he leans out, just enough to see.

Dean is pinned to the floor by the demon’s power, staring up at it with a look that could freeze it solid where it stands.

“You shouldn’t have let Glyneth get away,” the demon smirks, taking a step closer to Dean, and Jax guesses that must be the name of the demon that was inside him.

“You all didn’t come to Charming just for me.” Dean speaks the words with a thin, nasty smile, like he wasn’t pinned against the floor at all.

Jax can see the Colt lying just above Dean’s left shoulder. It wouldn’t take more than a second or two of distraction for Dean to get his hands on it, and Jax knows if he gives Dean those couple of seconds, Dean _will_.

“No,” the demon says, taking a few steps closer, arrogance in every sway of its shoulders and hips. “But all bullshit aside? I would have. So would’ve a lot of us,” the demon adds, nodding at the others behind it. There are ten of them, all told, and the only good thing in all of this is that Jax doesn’t recognize a single one of their faces. At least they’re not from Charming.

“I missed your turn in hell, Dean, but I hear you’re one of the sweetest pieces of ass around. Gonna be a party tonight,” it grins.

Jax steps from behind the cover of the doorway—shoots it dead in the face, and then shoots it again, again, again, again, again. 

All it does is stagger back a few paces, momentarily distracted from Dean.

 _Fuck._ He’s fucked—they’re both fucked—

And then Dean leaps from the floor, body twisting so fast and hard that Jax can barely track him, muzzle of his gun shoved against the thing’s forehead, shot echoing through the room. Dean watches it fall--a fraction of a second before the demon’s body hits the floor, flashes of light still echoing through it—and then he steps forward, planting a foot on the things chest.

Dean looks up at the other demons, cold smile twisting his mouth. “Welcome to the party.”

One, two shots fired from Dean’s gun before he even moves, two bodies hitting the ground, and then he steps forward over the body, killing a fourth. The rest explode, black smoke rushing from their mouths, and Dean shoots another one, taking it through the throat before he aims for another, bullet destroying the eye.

The other four bodies fall to the floor, funnel tails of black smoke trailing from their mouths.

Dean stops, shoves his gun to the small of his back and then falls to his knees, fingers searching out a pulse on the rest of the bodies.

“They’re alive.”

“We need to get the live ones out now,” Jax says, pulling his phone out of his jeans. 

Dean nods agreement. “I’ll do it.”

Jax nods back, dialing Opie. “I’ll call Ope and have him get everybody down here to clean up the rest.”

 

*

 

Tig shows up three minutes later—meaning he’d been sleeping at the garage—rushing into the club and coming to a dead stop when he sees the carnage.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He puts his hands on his head, eyes wide with disbelief. “What the fuck…” 

“Later,” Jax says, tersely. He and Dean have already loaded one live body into Dean’s car, and they’ve got a lot of work left to do.

Tig snaps to and stands up straight, rubbing a hand across his jaw as he looks around the room. Dean’s already lifting the shoulders of another live one, and Tig eyes him for a second before he steps closer to Jax, almost speaking out of the side of his mouth. “There’s no way we can get rid of this many bodies.”

“What are you saying?” Jax asks, eyes tightening on Tig, sensing there’s something more.

Tig rubs at his face again, uncomfortable—and shit, anything that makes _Tig_ uncomfortable, makes Jax immediately and completely uncomfortable by proxy.

“I… know a guy.” Tig finally says. “He knows how to make shit like this disappear.”

“A cleaner?” Jax demands, and under normal circumstances, he’d be pissed at Tig for suggesting they bring in someone who’s not already involved in club business—a fucking cleaner for Christ’s sake. But these are not normal circumstances. And Tig’s not wrong. Making civilian bodies disappear permanently is a lot harder than pinning biker club murders on other clubs. Cops tend to care a lot more about civilian murders.

“Yeah,” Tig nods. “His name’s Bachman. One of the best.”

Jesus. Jax shakes his head, teeth grinding together hard. He cannot even fucking believe the way his world’s gone to shit in the last two days. 

“Call him.”

 

*

 

Bachman is possibly the creepiest motherfucker Jax has ever seen, despite the fact that he’s dressed like any other biker, jeans and t-shirt, leather jacket, boots. He’s got to be in his sixties, long gray hair with an expressionless face and flat, empty, dark eyes. Even the way he moves is strange, odd loping gait that seems off somehow. He doesn’t say a word to anyone, or even look at anybody who’s alive, just follows Jax inside and bends down on one knee amongst the bodies. He’s all business, and he immediately starts measuring out their dimensions, forefingers and thumbs of his hand making L-shapes as he works out some kind of calculation in his head. 

Jesus, Jax can’t believe this is happening under the roof of the Sons’ clubhouse.

“Shit,” he hisses, shaking his head, disgusted. He looks around at the rest of the guys. “Let’s get out of here and let him work.”

“Guy creeps me out,” Tig confesses in a near whisper as they file through the front door, and Jax would find that funny except that it really isn’t.

Jax had explained everything to the club after Dean left, while they waited for the cleaner to show up. He told them what happened, and the steps they need to take to keep it from happening again. They hadn’t all been comfortable with it, but in the end they’d all agreed. 

Most of the guys say goodnight and take off for home, and Jax can see it in their faces, how much all of this is fucking with their heads. He doesn’t like seeing it, but he knows they’ll come through it. They’ve yet to run across anything that could tear them apart.

Opie gives him a last look, silently asking if Jax needs anything, and Jax shakes his head fractionally. He’d feel better with Opie here, but Opie’s got family at home waiting for him. 

As Opie fires up his bike, Jax leans back against one of the cars in the lot and lights a cigarette, orange glow flaring, Tig lingering beside him. 

“I can wait for Bachman,” Tig offers. “You can catch a couple hours of sleep in the office.”

Jax shakes his head, taking a drag off his cigarette. “I’ll wait.”

“What a mess, huh?” Tig asks, letting out a slow breath, shaking his head back and forth. He pauses then, head turning to look at Jax. “You had one of those things inside you…” he hesitates, and Jax knows Tig well enough now to know what’s coming next. “What was it like?”

“Like being locked inside my own head while someone else ran the controls.”

“Christ,” Tig mutters after a moment.

“We’ll protect the club first thing in the morning.”

Tig nods agreement, expression still thoughtful. “You ever wonder how they all know Dean?”

_“I missed your turn in hell, Dean”_

“I mean…” Tig goes on slowly, taking a slow pace past Jax. “We never even knew these things existed until yesterday, and he’s like… this demon-killing legend.” Tig makes a sound of disbelieving wonder. “It’s fucking crazy.”

Jax knows. And he hasn’t even told them the worst of it yet—the rest of it. How every single nightmare story that made them afraid of the dark when they were kids is true. He wonders if he _can_ tell them—if he _should_. Some things, people are maybe better off not knowing unless they have to.

It’s no fucking wonder Dean’s as screwed up as he is. 

“I know,” Jax says, reaching out to clap a hand on one of Tig’s shoulders. 

Tig turns, looking at him full on. “I keep thinking… what if he hadn’t been here? I mean, the guy worries the shit out of me, don’t get me wrong, but we need him, don’t we?”

Tig has been the club’s Sergeant at Arms for as long as he can remember—the one the President sends out to do the dirty work—the assassinations, the things that people shouldn’t have to do. The fact that Tig thinks so deeply about things makes Jax consider how much weight Tig’s actually carrying for all the things he’s done. He’s not entirely stable, but he’s sane, and he’s got such a sharp insight into things… 

Jax nods. “Yeah. I think we do.”

Tig nods slowly, and Jax can see the wheels turning in his mind as he takes that in. 

“I’m gonna crash,” he says after a moment, clasping Jax’s shoulder. “You come get me if you need anything.”

“You know it,” Jax says with a smile, returning the gesture.

Jax watches Tig walk to the garage, dragging hard on his cigarette. It’s still new, this dynamic between them. When Clay was President, Tig had been his left hand as much as Jax had been his right, and they’d clashed often over the space between. Now he’s Jax’s left hand, as loyal to him as he’d ever been to Clay, and it’s still weird on occasion. 

_“We need him, don’t we?”_

Jax hasn’t depended on anyone else for his safety since his dad died when he was sixteen. He doesn’t want to have to depend on anyone else now. But he can’t ignore the itch underneath his skin, the one that nags at him, telling him he’s not safe—never has been safe. He’ll feel better after they get protection in place tomorrow, but the truth is… they do need Dean.

He doesn’t like that. Not one bit. But it’s better than dying.

And the fact that Dean’s willing to stick around and help _does_ have some benefits.

Dean took off with the live bodies in his car hours ago, and he’s sure Dean isn’t coming back. Not tonight, anyway. It’s a little unsettling, maybe, to realize he wishes Dean would. So he’d feel more fortified to fight anything else that shows up. That’s all. And that’s bad enough.

He leans against the car and smokes three more cigarettes while he waits for Bachman to finish, watching the sky gradually lighten as dawn approaches.

A car pulls into the lot, just at the point where the sun is on the verge of its appearance, and Jax recognizes the hum of the engine even before he turns, surprised.

He watches as the Impala pulls in, parking near the clubhouse, dust kicking up, and a moment later Dean steps out, pulling a bag over his shoulder.

“Cleaner still in there?” he asks as he walks up.

Jax throws his cigarette down, crunching it under his heel into the dirt before he nods. “How’d it go?”

“They’re fine.”

“Didn’t expect to see you back this soon.”

Dean tilts his head to one side, shrugging lightly.

“Heard you might need some help with redecorating,” Dean smirks, reaching up to pat the bag resting against his shoulder.

Jax nods, understanding. And if he feels gratified, it’s just because he’ll finally be able to get the clubhouse protected. 

“We need to wait until he’s done?” Dean asks.

Jax knows Bachman has got to be almost done by now.

“Nah,” he says, turning and beginning to walk toward the clubhouse. “Come on.”

  



	3. Chapter 3

They manage to find a middle ground on the protection, devil’s traps and wards painted where they can be hidden by rugs and decorations in the main room, but Jax can’t figure out what the hell to do about the salt—it’s not like this is a low traffic building, and all he needs his mom walking in and seeing that shit—until Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and jerks his chin up at the ceiling.

It takes pulling out a ladder to get high enough to see, but there, between the top of the walls and the roof, there’s enough of a gap pour salt on top of and inside the cinderblocks and draw a complete line around all four walls, over every window, every doorway. It takes some time, and they have to move through each clubhouse bedroom to do it, but in the end, the whole place is ringed in salt.

Jax can’t help but notice the way Dean moves while he works, quietly confident and self assured, muscles in his upper arms flexing as he pours the salt, eyes completely focused on his work, an ease to his movements that speaks of a lifetime spent doing things like this. That’s hot all on its own, but the great view Jax gets of his ass when he climbs the ladder doesn’t hurt, either. It’s not what he should be focusing on, but it _is_ a really nice view. 

When Dean climbs down the ladder for the final time in the corner of Jax’s bedroom, light is slanting in hard through the slit in the curtains, morning given way to afternoon. Dean sets down what Jax figures must be about the millionth bag of salt and dusts his hands.

“We good?” Jax asks.

Dean’s eyes are incredibly green as the harsh light catches them, and Jax can see the lines etched underneath them, stark blue in relief against his pale skin. He looks tired, soul-tired, for an instant, and then that smirk Jax is already getting used to seeing on him curves his lips. 

“Yeah, you’re good.”

Jax arches a brow at the word ‘you’re’. “Not good enough for you to stay here?”

Dean hesitates for a long moment, silence drawn out between them. “It’s good enough.”

Jax wants to ask him straight out if he’s going to stay here or not. He wants to, but he hates that he feels like he has to, like he has to rely on Dean to help them.

“If you don’t wanna stay here, just fuckin’ say so,” words coming out harsher than he wants them to.

Dean’s brows rise slowly. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?” he returns, tone almost mild.

“Not gonna beg you,” Jax shrugs, turning away and heading for the door.

The hand that grabs him by the shoulder is as strong as it is sure, spinning him halfway around before he jerks out from underneath it, and then Dean’s other palm hits him square in the chest, shoving him against the wall.

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers, mouth a bare inch from Jax’s. “I think I might like to hear you beg.”

Body so close, not quite pressing against him, hand pushed against Jax’s chest, and his heart is thundering in his ears, beat filled with half adrenaline and half need. 

“Take your best shot,” Jax growls, and then Dean’s mouth is crashing into his, weight of his body shoving in, hips dragging against Jax’s, thigh riding up between, fingers squeezing along the line of Jax’s shoulders, thumbs digging into the space between his collarbone and the muscle above. Mouth devouring his as he opens, tongue rushing to meet Dean’s, slick, wicked glide and tangle, hands grabbing Dean by the hips, pulling him closer, grinding into the feel of him. 

He can feel the hot, hard line of Dean’s cock rubbing against his through their jeans, the slip and catch of his chest through their shirts, stomach muscles rippling and shuddering as they coil and then drive up into Jax, slide of Dean’s dick against his through denim nearly shorting out his brain as Dean’s mouth glides around the line of his jaw, tongue teasing at the line of his pulse, teeth closing, biting down so hard that Jax gasps, hips bucking into Dean’s, fingers squeezing reflexively, yanking Dean against him as he thrusts.

Dean pushes up on his feet, hands on Jax’s shoulders dragging Jax where he wants him, down the wall, inch by inch, teeth seizing in the thin skin of his throat, hips thrusting into him, and all he wants is to throw Dean on the bed and fuck him within an inch of his life, but this is Dean’s show, and goddamn, he’s putting in one hell of a performance. Sparks skidding up through Jax’s belly, those hips working against his, thigh following behind, tongue lashing out against his throat, and he feels like a fucking teenager, rubbing off against Dean through their clothes, hands clutching the muscles of Dean’s ass.

“This is…” grind, thrust, “your plan to make me beg?” Jax gasps, and he has to admit, it’s not a bad one, because _shit_.

“Shut up,” Dean growls savagely, teeth tearing from his throat, mouth melding against his, hands riding the line of Jax’s back down to his ass, curling there, holding him as he fucks against him. Perfect friction, cocks sliding against each other, Dean kissing him down into the wall, and he can’t hold on anymore, can’t hold out.

He’s going to come in his pants—he knows it in the scant seconds before it actually happens, feeing Dean ride against him, tongue flicking against the roof of his mouth, hands gripping his ass, holding him still—and he doesn’t care. Rising as hard as he can to catch Dean’s rhythm, head tilting back against the wall, that mouth kissing down into him, every inch of Dean molded against him, practically riding him and God—fuck—

“Asshole,” Jax hisses, teeth sinking into Dean’s bottom lip, everything inside him surging up through his cock, whole body riding the wave, undulating into Dean, nerves shuddering and kicking, hands clutching and clinging, and _fuck_ , so good, Dean grinding relentlessly into him, jagged wet spurts as Jax shakes up into him, streaking the inside of his jeans, cock dragging hot against slick denim, lightning through his veins, mouthing words against the air, Dean biting at the curve of his neck.

Jax is shivering, delicious aftershocks thrumming through him, when Dean goes still against him, breathing out hard against Jax’s throat as his fingers work open the button on Jax’s jeans. He can feel a shudder ripple through Dean as he slides his hand inside, fingers running through the mess.

“Christ.” Dean hisses out the word, voice strained.

Jax takes a moment to feel the tiniest bit better about coming in his pants like a kid, and then Dean’s fingers feather up the sticky, softening length of Jax’s cock, and Jax feels another aftershock hit him, biting down against the sensation, hips twitching.

Dean pushes Jax’s jeans open wider, further down his hips, hands undoing in his own jeans, sliding the waistline down. Hands sliding down the back of Jax’s pants, cupping his ass he rocks into him, bare skin against bare, Dean hot and aching hard, riding up through the slick mess of Jax’s cock to his belly, grunting as his chin crashes into Jax’s shoulder.

It’s so hot, Dean so obviously turned on that Jax’s cock makes a valiant attempt to get hard again, twitching as he gets his hands on Dean’s hips and rocks up into him. Cock slipping through come, dragging against bare skin, hips circling and grinding into Jax, thrusting raggedly, Dean’s mouth a hot, wet smear against Jax’s throat. Jax lets go of him with one hand, pushing down between them, palm pressing down against Dean’s dick, adding to the friction.

“Fuck.” Dean’s hips buck, once, twice, cock skidding against Jax’s, fingers clawing at him, and then he shudders, teeth sinking into Jax’s shoulder through his shirt, spurting hot and wet all over Jax’s belly. He twists his hips with another jagged thrust, cock dragging against Jax’s hand, shivering as he pulses again, and Jax wraps his fingers around the width of him, stroking quick and hard to the top, feels Dean’s cock jump at his touch, angle spattering come up to Jax’s chest, Dean groaning out a curse as he fucks into the slick circle of Jax’s fingers. Pumping and shuddering, Jax squeezing and pulling until Dean’s spent, breathing out hard against curve where Jax’s neck meets his shoulder.

“I think you were closer to begging than I was,” Jax says, after a moment.

“You’re the one who came in your pants.” Dean sounds beyond smug.

“You’re the one who got off on it,” Jax shoots back, corner of his mouth quirking in a smile.

Dean gives a shrug that’s half agreement and half “so what?” It’s another moment before he brings his hands up, pushing off the wall and taking all his weight back. He pulls his jeans back up around his waist and tucks himself in while Jax does the same, neither of them bothering to zip up.

Jax lets Dean use the bathroom to clean up first, sitting down on the edge of the bed and lighting a cigarette. Dean doesn’t take long, and when he comes back out from the bathroom, he starts moving around the room, packing up the gear they’d been using to protect the rooms.

Jax isn’t sure how that just happened, or why, and it’s not like he’s exactly complaining, but the question he’d asked before Dean had thrown him against the wall still hangs there, heavy between them.

Jax is almost to the bathroom door when Dean speaks.

“I’m not sure the club wants me here.”

Jax turns around to see Dean kneeling on the floor, back turned to Jax as he packs in the last of his things.

“ **I** want you here,” Jax answers. “We’re all safer with you here.”

Dean’s done loading his bag, just kneeling there on one knee, elbow resting on the other. “Whether they like it or not?”

“ _We_ all agreed. Whatever they think, you’re welcome here.”

Dean sits there for a long moment, silent, thinking, so long that Jax thinks he might sit there forever. And then Dean moves, zips the bag and gets to his feet, slinging it over his shoulder, only hesitating for an instant before he turns around.

“Which room is mine?”

 

\-----

 

Jax gives him the room he slept in that first night that seems like it happened a thousand years ago. He’s tired as hell—he was running on not enough sleep even before that thirty hour stint he just pulled. He was ready to fall down long before they were done protecting the clubhouse, close to dropping until…

_Yeah, so how about that?_

_Still too tired to know_ , he thinks, as he sits down hard against the bed, fingers untying knots and beginning to unlace his boots. He manages to kick them off before he gives in and lies down, shoving the Colt underneath the pillow, asleep almost before his head touches down.

 

*

When he wakes, it’s to a knock on the door, sitting up in a hurry, Colt drawn from beneath the pillow. He gets up, walking to the door and opening it a crack, Colt still in his hand.

Jax is standing there, blue eyes questioning, one brow raised as he peers in.

Dean steps back, tucking the Colt in at the base of his spine and opening the door.

“There’s dinner downstairs,” Jax says. “Tats can wait til after that.”

Dean rakes a hand through his hair, motioning Jax inside with the other. “About that.”

Jax swaggers into the room, Dean shutting the door behind him.

He might as well just get it out there all at once. He’s going to have to tell it all anyway.

“The ink for the tattoos,” Dean begins. “It’s more than just ink. There are things that have to be mixed into it. I have most of them, but there’s one, it has to be a borderland flower.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I did some looking, before I came back here. Poppies will get it done. There’s plenty of them out by Highway 5. I’d do it alone, but considering what a hard-on the demons have for me and how many of them there are around here, I could use some back up.”

Jax leans back against the door, shoulders settling as he folds his arms across his chest, looking at Dean, bemused. “Are you asking me to pick flowers with you?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies without missing a beat. “And then on the way back I thought we could stop and pick out curtains for when I move into your room. I bet we could find some with skulls on them.”

Jax laughs so hard that Dean can’t help laughing, too. It takes them both a minute to stop, and when they do, Dean’s left searching for the right words.

“I don’t care who it is,” Dean finally says. That’s not strictly true, he’d prefer someone he trusts, but anyone will do in a tight spot as long they back him up.

“No.” Jax shakes his head. “You stay here. I’ll send Chibs and Happy. They can handle it.”

Dean bristles slightly at the sound of Jax making decisions for him, but he gets it. Jax wants him here in case anything goes down. He’s got the Colt and the knife, after all. 

“And if they both end up possessed?” Dean asks.

Jax frowns, muscle in his jaw working, brows knitting together. “Then the trip’s a bust,” he concludes, clearly not happy.

“That’s why it has to be me.”

“And if they show up while you’re gone?”

“You shoot ‘em full of rock salt and run like hell for the clubhouse. Or you could all wait here until I get back. It’s only gonna take a few hours to make the trip.”

Jax thinks for a moment, eyes narrowing. “I’m coming with you. I’ll tell the guys to hang here tonight, keep everyone inside.”

“You sure?” Dean asks, frowning. 

“Opie can handle it. Nothing I could do that he couldn’t.”

Dean considers that. He doesn’t go anywhere without the Colt within arm’s reach or the demon-killing knife clipped to his belt. But if Jax is willing to risk this on Dean’s word that they need some kind of fucking flower…

“I can leave him the knife,” Dean offers.

“It kills demons, too.” The words aren’t a question, but Dean nods anyway.

“Another ‘one of a kind’?”

“If it wasn’t, there’d be a lot less demons walking the earth.”

Jax huffs out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. I guess so.”

His tone is sarcastic enough that Dean bristles again, tension in the muscles at the top of his neck winding down his spine. “If you don’t think he needs it, I like it better on my belt anyway.”

“No,” Jax says, shaking his head. “It’s not that. This whole thing… it’s just…”

“Yeah. I know,” Dean says, voice low. 

There’s a pause between them, the two of them looking at each other.

Jax pushes off the wall, straightening. “You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

 

*

 

After dinner, and after Jax talks to the club privately, they spend some time arguing about whether or not to take the Impala. Jax wants Dean to ride bitch on his bike, and there are so many reasons why Dean’s not going to do that, first and foremost among them that his arsenal is inside the Impala and if they run into anything else along the way…

“You know you’re a paranoid motherfucker?” Jax demands.

Dean tilts his head to one side, lips curling in a bitter smile. “Paranoid is what’s kept me alive this long.”

 

*

 

It seems like a simple thing, on the surface. Jax riding with him in the Impala makes sense.

But the second Jax slides inside, settling against the leather, it’s not simple at all.

No one’s been in the passenger seat since…

_\--“Promise me, Dean.”--_

“Not bad,” Jax notes, settling back against the leather with his usual ease.

Dean pushes on the gas and shoves a tape into the deck. He’s not sure which one it is, he hasn’t been able to listen to anything in months, but he’s got a passenger and this is a road trip and he’s not sure he can really talk right now. So, music it is.

Whitesnake reverberates through the speakers, and Jax’s fingers tap out the drum rhythm against the passenger side door. For a moment it reminds Dean so much of Sam that it almost _hurts_. His brother’s face next to him, gigantic, ridiculously long body laid back against the seat, fingers tapping out perfect drums along the metal ridge under the window.

_“Just like old times,” Sam says, turning his face to look at Dean._

Dean’s knuckles tighten against the steering wheel, closing out the sound. Eyes focusing on the road, he concentrates on driving.

 

*

 

He isn’t Jax again until they stop, until Dean watches him walk across the gas station parking lot, shoulders and hips swinging, hands shoved down inside his jean pockets, gait and movement so different from Sam’s. Form shortening, solidifying, long hair shaking out longer, lightening to blond, reaper grinning across his shoulder blades, tennis shoes stark white against the black asphalt.

_“You okay?” Sam asks, voice nearly muted by the sound of Jimmy Page belting out the chorus to ‘Whole Lotta love’._

Dean runs a hand along his jaw, feeling the grit of stubble, palm pushing up hard underneath his chin.

Yeah, he’s fine. Excepting wide-awake, usually frostbitten visions of his dead brother, he’s completely sane.

He watches Jax walk up, necks of two bottles of soda caught between the fingers of one hand, bottles swinging in time with his arms until he reaches the passenger door and pulls it open. He slides in next to Dean, passing off one of the bottles without a word.

It’s a natural moment as Dean reaches out and takes it. It feels right. On the road, someone in the passenger seat next to him, handing off drinks like it’s any other trip.

Jax’s eyes catch his in the harsh light of the fluorescents above the car, intense burning blue. It’s a casual look, like Jax mostly looks at him, but there’s always something there, something simmering in the background. Dean thinks he looks like that all the time, but when it’s focused on him in particular…

He pushes the Coke bottle down between his thighs and shoves the car into gear.

 

*

 

It’s another hour out to where they need to be, Coke half empty and sweating out between his legs.

He pulls off on a narrow service road, gravel kicking up as he rolls the car to a stop. He shoves the bottle behind him as he moves, sliding out from behind the wheel. He hears the passenger side door of the Impala bang shut a moment after his, and tries not to think about what that sound usually means, stepping from the dirt and gravel into grass that leads down a gentle slope.

It’s a gorgeous California night, sky clear and filled with stars like the scatter of diamonds. The poppies shudder, tall grass waving around them in the mild breeze blowing in off the coast. To the right, the highway in the distance is dotted with splashes of red and gold as cars move in both directions. To the left, the skinny arm of an inlet runs alongside them, surface barely rippling, stars reflected almost perfectly upon it, bright city lights beyond it, twinkling like jewels even from miles away.

It’s peaceful, silent except for the humming of cars passing by in the far background, and for a moment, Dean’s filled with a sense of longing so strong it’s almost overwhelming. If Sam were here, they’d hang out for a while, maybe sit on the hood of the Impala and have a couple beers, take in the view.

He can hear Jax walk up behind him, feet scuffing through the long grass, hear the snick of his lighter, smell the scent of burning tobacco on the air.

“Everything cool?” Jax asks, voice quiet as he steps up beside Dean. He doesn’t look at Dean, taking in the same view Dean was just admiring. 

“Just checking out the lights,” Dean answers.

Jax nods slowly, exhaling smoke that catches in the breeze, swept away almost as soon as it leaves him. “My dad used to bring me out this way sometimes when I was a kid,” he says after a moment. “We’d sit in the grass by his bike while the sun set, watch the city lights come up. There’s a place a little further north by the water with a perfect view.”

Dean clears his throat, struggling to keep the strain from his voice. “Sounds nice.”

Jax nods, not saying anything. Dean doesn’t have to say anything in return, Jax doesn’t expect it, and maybe that’s the reason he does.

“I was …” Dean stops, clearing his throat again. “Me and… Sam. Place like this… we’d kick back on the hood of the Impala with a couple beers. Just…” he reaches for a smile, catches the barest, bitter thread of one, “sit here in the quiet. Take it all in.”

Jax is silent for a long time. When he finally speaks again, his voice is rough. “Sounds like a good time.” There’s another long pause, and Dean doesn’t have anything to fill the silence with, breeze running over him, ruffling his hair.

“I was a kid when Tommy died,” he says.

Dean swallows hard, trying to imagine that. “How long ago?”

“Twenty years.” Jax straightens his stance, shifting his shoulders. “How long for you?”

_Forever._

Somehow, Dean forces the words out. “Back in May.”

Jax shakes his head, breathing out a sound that expresses exactly how much he thinks that sucks.

“He saved the world…” Dean’s voice wavers, and it’s a moment before he can go on. “I know that should be enough.”

“’Should’ doesn’t matter when family dies.” Jax turns his face slightly, looking at him sideways, hair flowing back from his face in the breeze.

God. Fuck no, it doesn’t.

Dean nods, taking a deep breath against the ache in his chest, lifting his eyes to look out at the city lights again. They double and blur in his vision, and he blinks hard, pushing down the feeling. 

“We should get what we came for,” he says after a moment, stepping forward down the grassy slope.

Jax’s hand falls on his shoulder, bringing him up short, and he turns, meeting those intense eyes under the moonlight. 

Around them the grass ripples, and he thinks maybe Jax is going to say something else—or maybe _do_ something else—but faintly, on the edge of the night breeze, a female voice rises, singing. Dean can’t quite understand the words, but the melody is bittersweet, twining around him, pulling his eyes from Jax’s, both of their heads turning in perfect unison.

There’s a woman walking toward them along the edge of the water, white shawl wrapped around her shoulders, long, blond hair rippling and flowing against her face. Dean would swear she hadn’t existed before the moment she started singing—he hadn’t heard a sound—but there she is. He can feel the sadness drain from him at the sight of her, memories of Sam whisked away.

She’s beautiful, Dean can see now, moonlight glowing against her pale skin, features delicate and perfectly carved, eyes wide and glistening green. Her voice rises against the night, longing and regret woven together with ragged threads.

There’s something… something about her that triggers an echo of memory, dissonant chords striking in the back of his mind, playing down his spine, but he can’t quite reach it. The feeling slips away like sand through his fingers as she veers from the water’s edge, her bare feet padding through the tall grass as her voice dies away. Closer, until she’s all he can see, until he can smell her, salty skin and secrets. Until her eyes meet his, glimmering, fragile green, and he understands.

He doesn’t know her, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, hips swaying inside the short, white dress she’s wearing, thighs perfectly muscled and tanned.

She glances at Jax, fingertips caressing his face, and Jax stares back, looking as enthralled as Dean feels. But it’s Dean that she turns to, heart-shaped lips moving to form words.

“You’re lost, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Her voice is melodic, dulcet tones that ring through him. Fingers sweeping through his hair, pulling him closer, lush swell of her mouth so close to his.

He doesn’t have an answer for that, too focused on her to care.

She kisses him, lips cool and plush, hands sliding through his hair, clutching the back of his head and pulling him in deep, tongue diving, circling his, taste salty-sweet.

Flex of her tongue, gossamer strands dissolving into liquid, salty rush filling his mouth, flooding his throat, sputtering into his lungs, and it’s just as perfect as the feel of her curves under his hands. Fingertips brushing against the small of his back, weight lifting away, and he pulls her closer, tighter—

A gunshot splits the air, so close it fractures his hearing, sends him reeling as she’s thrown from his arms, her body hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Dean coughs, choking out water, registering her body against the ground, hole through the temple—and then she shimmers, shivering skin of clear liquid seeming to encase her before it consumes her, muscles and curves refracting moonlight from the inside out. Holding for an instant, and then she dissipates, vanishing, water pooling into the grass.

Jax is standing next to him, Colt in his hand.

“That wasn’t a demon.”

It all clicks into place—the reason he’d thought he’d recognized her, the fingertips against the small of his back, weight of the Colt lifted away.

“Nereid,” Dean coughs, leaning forward, hands planted against his knees as he pushes out the rest of the water in his lungs.

“Water creature,” he says when he can, breathing hard against the burning in his lungs. “Evil. How’d you know?”

There’s a smirk curling Jax’s mouth. “Haven’t ever seen you go for a girl.”

Rueful laughter boils up inside Dean’s chest. “You should have known me before.”

Jax looks interested for a moment, and then he shrugs his shoulders in that loose, easy way. “You sounded like you were drowning.”

“I was.” Dean coughs again, thin threads of pain through his chest. 

Men aren’t supposed to be able to harm Nereids, because they’re just that desirable. Apparently, reality isn’t that heterosexual.

This is a mental snapshot that he really doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“You okay?”

He’s almost drowned once or twice enough to know his chest is going to hurt for a while, but at least he can breathe without coughing, now. “I’ll live.”

Jax turns the Colt over in his hands, fingers running over the words carved in the handle, and then he grips it by the barrel, turning it around, presenting the handle to Dean. 

“I’ve lived here all my life and never seen anything weird. One road trip with you, and crazy shit’s coming up out of the water.”

“You get used to it,” Dean says, fingers sliding around the handle of the gun to take it back. 

The sound that comes up out of Jax’s chest that isn’t quite a laugh, one brow rising like he doesn’t believe that at all.

Dean eases the Colt in against the base of his spine, thinking how glad he is that it’s Jax with him and not someone else. He’s not sure anyone else would’ve thought to take the Colt and shoot her, if they thought to shoot her at all before Dean drowned. Jax hadn’t hesitated for a second.

“Thanks,” he says, throat still rough with the burn of water.

Jax nods once, pushing his hands into his jean pockets, feet spread apart, brows drawing together in a thoughtful frown as he looks at the ground where the Nereid dissolved. “All the monsters in your dad’s journal… those are all real.” It’s not quite a question, his eyes searching Dean’s for confirmation and nothing more.

“All those and then some,” Dean nods. 

“What a fuckin’ head trip.” Jax snorts and shakes his head. And for all that Dean can see he’s still getting his head around it, he still didn’t hesitate shooting the Nereid when he thought she was killing Dean. He’s got the instincts and reflexes of a hunter, and he’s adapting fast. It’s more than impressive, and Dean finds himself the tiniest bit inexplicably proud. And maybe a little turned on.

Then there’s the fact that he hasn’t talked to anyone about Sam since the world didn’t end. Not until now.

Yeah, that’s not something he wants to examine too closely, either.

“So, we gonna do this?” Jax asks, tipping his head in the direction of the flowers.

Dean’s legs still feel slightly wobbly, but they carry him well enough to where the poppies are growing, Jax following along behind. He kneels down, reaching automatically for the knife at his hip, remembering belatedly that it isn’t there. He digs into his back pocket and pulls out his pocket knife, flipping it open and slicing through the stem. He moves to pass the first one off to Jax, and Jax kneels down beside him, looking him dead in the eye, corner of his mouth tugging in a smile.

“Aw, honey, you shouldn’t have.”

Dean snorts out a laugh and tosses the flower at him. “Hey first date’s gotta make an impression.”

“You almost getting killed by that water monster was pretty impressive.”

Dean tosses the next poppy right at Jax’s face. 

Jax leans closer into Dean’s space, and Dean can feel his body respond, electrical charge rushing between them where they’re almost touching.

“You put out on the first date?” His voice is pitched low and husky, mouth close to Dean’s. His brows are raised, eyes glinting amusement, but Dean can see the fire in them. The words are a joke, but the intent behind them is anything but.

Dean feels want hit him like a fist to the gut, and fuck, Jax is too hot, so close, but…

“We are _not_ fucking in the middle of a field of flowers and creating the most chick flick moment ever.”

Jax laughs and then tongues at the corner of his mouth, forefinger and thumb rubbing to the point of his chin. “Not here,” he says, leaning closer, words breathed out against Dean’s cheek, close to his ear. “I was thinking,” his voice drops another notch, filled with sex and sin, “how much I’d love to bend you over the hood of the Impala.”

Jesus motherfucking Christ on a crutch. Dean feels the words hit him with the force of an explosion, heat spiraling out from his belly.

“After we get the flowers,” Jax adds, tone teasing, breath ghosting along the line of Dean’s cheekbone.

“Fuck the flowers,” Dean growls, fingers gripping Jax’s jaw and dragging him in. Mouths on a collision course, wet heat opening for him, teeth clicking together before they angle, chins grazing with a rough scrape of stubble as Dean’s tongue sinks deep, circling Jax’s. Jax’s hands pull at him, tugging him up from the ground, mouths sealed together, fingers gripping Dean’s shoulders, pulling him forward, walking them back up the hill.

It’s a slow, staggering dance, giving and taking, and Dean barely notices as it ends, letting Jax spinning him around, back of his thighs hitting solid metal. Jax’s tongue drives down into him, sucking out to the tip as he pushes Dean down, spine angling across the hood, shoulder pressed against the windshield.

“So hot,” Jax breathes against his mouth, hips rolling into Dean’s.

Dean grinds up into him, fingertips gripping the space between his ribs and his hips. “You gonna fuck me? Or come in your pants again?”

“Motherfucker,” Jax whispers, teeth sinking deep into to Dean’s lower lip, fingers clenching in his shoulder muscles. The world spins sideways as Jax pulls back, flips him over, weight of him landing against Dean’s back, hands spreading out across the expanse of his shoulder blades, teeth closing around the knob of bone at the base of Dean’s neck.

Hands sliding down his sides, riding the curve of his hips inward, fingertips dragging against Dean’s cock all the way up to the button, mouth sucking and biting the back of his neck, Jax’s cock grinding against his ass through their clothes, and fuck, he feels like he could come right here, with the slightest bit of friction against his cock as Jax thumbs open the button on his jeans. Zipper undone, hands fisting in the waistline of his jeans, ripping them away from his skin, night breeze hitting his bare skin, and he arches into the feel, hands gripping together hard, braced against the hood of the Impala.

Pants pooled around his ankles, and Jax slides down low, mouthing against the back of Dean’s calf, cursing. “Your fucking boots.”

“Jesus. Just fucking do it,” Dean hisses, sweating out against metal.

“Want you spread open wider,” Jax breathes, biting against his Achilles tendon, hands snaking up underneath the cuffs of his jeans.

Dean can’t even form words against that, spike of heat through his stomach, cock twitching. He pushes his foot at a better angle so Jax can undo the knots there, slowly loosening the tightness of the boots, mouth dancing wickedly down the muscles of his calves. When Jax finally manages to pull them free, socks and jeans following after, he feels like some kind of war has been won, bare feet settling wide against the gritty edge of the service road. 

“Fuck,” Jax whispers, fingertip trailing up between where he’s spread open, tip dipping spit-slick inside him. Throat arcing against the Impala as his head yanks back, sensation sending his hips driving backward, burying Jax’s finger inside him. It hurts and it feels good, so fucking _good_ , as good as the sound Jax makes when he does it.

“Fucking Christ.” Jax sounds like he’s going to strangle on the words, other hand shaking as his palm presses down against the small of Dean’s back. Finger sliding in and out, working inside Dean, second finger pushing in, stretching him open, stinging, and he hisses in a breath between his teeth at the feeling, body rippling against the hood, shoving back into Jax’s hand, palm against his back skidding through sweat.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Jax hisses.

Jax sounds as wrecked as Dean feels, skin tight and hot, ready come at the slightest touch. His cock is aching hard, trapped between his belly and the smooth warm metal of the car, hips twisting against Jax’s fingers, taut, sensitive skin dragging against the hood. Shiver running head to toe, hips hitching, breath catching in his chest.

“If you don’t fuck me right the hell now--” Dean growls, threat unfinished, words breaking off with a grunt as Jax’s fingers pull out of him.

He can hear noises, Jax tearing his clothes away, the unmistakable sound of a condom package being ripped open, and then his hands fit to the curve of Dean’s ass, head of his cock nudging between, wet with spit. Jax’s weight leans down across his back, chest and stomach molding to Dean’s spine, mouth breathing out hot just behind Dean’s ear.

“So fucking impatient,” he whispers, hands holding Dean by the hips, pinning him against the car. “Makes… me… crazy.” Words stuttered out as he pushes inside Dean, guttering into a growl, teeth closing around the side of Dean’s neck. Dean groans, lifting his head from the car, neck pushing into the feel of Jax’s teeth on him, whole body flexing, rushing to meet Jax’s thrust. But Jax is holding him down, motion only pushing his cock a little deeper, fast enough that they both gasp, biting out a curse, and then Jax moves, thrusting up into Dean so quick and hard that it forces all the breath from Dean’s lungs.

“God, feel so…” Jax trails off, lips and teeth dragging across the back of Dean’s neck, sucking in a desperate breath against Dean’s skin as he pushes up on the balls of his feet, shoving a fraction of an inch deeper. The sensation leaves both of them stretching, straining, writhing against each other, and Dean doesn’t really care if he ever breathes again. 

Jax keeps his grip on Dean’s hips, fingers digging in as he pulls back and then fucks into Dean slow, hips curving with wicked twists at the end of every stroke, cock head rubbing against that spot inside Dean that makes his head snap back, fireworks exploding behind his eyes, pleasure surging through every nerve, so intense he can barely catch his breath. 

Jax pushes up and away from him, all his weight coming down behind the hands pinning Dean down, keeping him still. Dean twists, wanting to fight, wanting to meet him thrust for thrust, but it feels so _good_ , the way Jax is fucking into him, cock angling and hitting the sweet spot, faster and harder with every thrust. 

“Should see… the way you look… spread wide open across the hood. Fuck.” Jax grates out the words between thrusts, pushing up off the ground with every one, burying himself so hard and quick and deep that Dean can hardly stand it, cock leaking wet against the Impala, length sliding slick through the mess as Jax’s grip loosens, hands grabbing the edge of the car, using the leverage to _pound_ into him. Dean’s chest rocks against the hood, cheek skidding across metal, hands clenched into a single mass, teeth grinding together, every muscle in his upper body rigid, tendons standing out against the skin. 

Dean’s got no leverage and no hope of matching Jax’s pace, whole body jolting, motion not even finished before Jax drills into him again, and again, and he feels like he’s going to shatter with how good it feels, rip right out of his skin, mind filling with white-hot light, balls tightening, heat flooding his belly. Jax yanks back and _slams_ into him, Dean’s cock grinding across the surface of the car, muscles knotting into gridlock—

“Fuck,” Jax gasps. “Yeah, do it.”

Dick skidding, gliding through sticky wet precome, friction of metal beneath and skin above, Jax hammering into him so hard that his teeth would chatter if he could unlock them long enough, and he groans through the barrier of them, stomach muscles seizing as he comes, long, wet streaks painting the Impala, body smearing each one as Jax keeps fucking him, whole body shivering, fingernails digging into the skin of his hands.

Lightning quick thrust, sending another burst shuddering through Dean, and then Jax’s hips stutter, body falling against Dean’s, mouth smearing a wet trail across the knob of bone at the top of Dean’s spine, teeth grazing before they sink into the muscle connecting to his shoulder.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” words uttered out like a desperate prayer.

Hips losing their rhythm, cock thrusting deep inside him, holding there, flexing as Jax comes, shoving deeper, fingers clutching at his hips, teeth tearing at the curve of his neck. Dragging out, and, _shit_ \--

“So... fucking… hot…” each word whispered punctuated by a shuddering of hips, and Dean’s cock twitches, pushing out a last weak, burst of come. 

Jax rides it out in short, flagging thrusts until he groans, face falling against Dean’s shoulder, hips finally stilling, his weight falling against Dean. 

It takes Dean a few minutes to understand where he is, and how much he needs to take a deep breath and not suffocate right here.

Jesus. That was…

“Breathing… becoming… an issue,” he rasps.

Jax peels away from him, Dean’s sweat still clinging to him. He claps a hand against Dean’s hip as he pulls out, fingers sliding away with his cock.

It takes Dean a few more seconds before he can stand, turning against the car. His ass is going to hate him tomorrow for going with spit lube, but he can’t say he’s sorry. Can’t say what else he is as he leans there, trying just to breathe.

Jax is already several steps ahead of him, loose jeans pulled up to the barest, illegal edge of his hips, lighting up a cigarette.

Dean drags on his jeans, ass sliding down against the car as he pulls them around his waist, hands still shaking as he pulls up the zipper. “Not bad for a first date.”

Jax turns his head slightly, smirking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “You still owe me flowers.”

 

*

 

After Dean cleans off the hood, they finally get the fucking flowers, jokes thrown back and forth until Jax says he’s more of a roses kinda guy, and Dean takes the joke as total truth, vowing to never let him live it down.

They slide into the car on opposite sides, smell of poppies heavy on the air.

Memories of Sam still push in around the edges, familiar loss like a hole right through the middle of him, but it’s… it’s different this time. 

Dean’s not sure he’s ready for different, but he throws the car into gear anyway, foot pressing against the gas pedal.

 

*

 

The trip takes hours, and they end up spending the time talking about music and monsters. They’re only a few minutes from the clubhouse now, and Dean isn’t looking forward to seeing the rest of the club when they get back.

“Jesus,” Dean hisses, slamming on the brakes as the headlights reveal some stupid asshole standing in the middle of the road. He yanks the car right, tires hitting dirt, riding out the twist it wants to throw at him.

“What the fuck?” Jax leans forward in his seat.

Dean already knows, even before he slows the car to a reasonably not-sideways halt. He’d recognized the man’s face an instant before he’d swerved, and he almost wishes his instincts hadn’t kicked in, because running Crowley over would pretty much make his night perfect.

“Could be trouble,” Dean says, foot on the brake as they skid to a stop. “Could be… something vaguely helpful. Probably a pain in the ass, either way.”

“You know him?” Jax asks, turning to look over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, throwing the car into park. “He’s a demon, but occasionally he’s useful.”

Jax opens his door in time with Dean's, and Dean pulls the Colt free as he gets out of the car, leveling it on the demon.

“My, don’t you two make quite the picture,” Crowley says, eyes raking up and down both of them in turn, like he knows _everything_ , and he probably does, the sneaky fucking bastard.

“Talk,” Dean demands.

“What? No ‘hello’? No ‘how’ve you been, I missed you so much’?” Crowley shakes his head, tsking. “You never call, you never write.”

“You got anything useful to tell me?”

“Just thought you’d want to give a proper welcome to the new king of hell.” 

That takes moment for Dean to process. Off Dean’s look, Crowley shrugs. “There was an opening when Lucifer went into the pit. I filled it. _Someone_ has to run the place.” 

“And this is making me want to kill you less because…?”

“Because we need each other.”

Crowley’s constant, dry sarcasm always has gotten under his skin and it’s no different now.

“Two seconds away from--”

“Blowing me a new orifice. Right. To business, then.” Crowley shrugs indifferently. “Seems like you and your…” he eyes Jax with a knowing glint in his eyes, “friend, here, have got a bit of a situation going on in Charming. I hear it’s all the rage with demons.”

“What do you know about it?”

“The ones in Charming, they’re not mine. Lucifer fanboys—and girls.”

“Rebellion already?” Dean asks. “Who would’ve thought?”

Crowley lets that roll off. “They’re looking for someone. And seeing as how they’re Lucifer fanatics and I’m newly empowered… that makes me just a little bit… uncomfortable,” he finishes, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Who are they looking for?”

“If I knew that,” Crowley says with barely restrained impatience, “I wouldn’t be here talking to _you_. Find out who they’re looking for and why, and then kill them. And I’ll keep my demons out of the whole mess,” he says with a slow, oily smile. 

“You don’t know who they want, or why, but you want me to kill them?”

“They’re _demons_ ,” Crowley says, in a tone that distinctly implies Dean is a moron. “Whoever they’re looking for isn’t going to shower the human race in double rainbows and puppies.”

“What do you get out of all this?” He knows Crowley’s getting something out of it, or he wouldn’t be here.

“A warm fuzzy feeling in my heart. Peace of mind.”

“He keeps his hands clean,” Jax says, voice low.

Dean glances at Jax, surprised, and sees Jax with his eyes fixed steadily on Crowley like he’s got him all figured out.

“New king,” Jax says shrugging one shoulder. “A war this soon could fuck everything up for him. He sends you in to do the job… you screw it up, he’s still got other options.”

There’s dead silence for a moment, and Dean just takes a second to appreciate that Jax is calling the king of hell out on his shit.

“Well, aren’t you the sharp one?” Crowley gives Jax an appraising look, and then looks at Dean. “And here I thought you were keeping him around because of his ruggedly pretty face.” Crowley tilts his head and then shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what I’m getting out of it. Wouldn’t want his town turning into a demon warzone, would you?” Crowley cuts his eyes at Jax again, and Dean can feel the way Jax is reaching the end of his leash, see it written in every line of his body.

Dean would rather let it come, let the demons fight, point the equivalent of a nuke at the town and blow it off the map. The more dead demons, the better. But it’s Jax’s town, his home, and Dean’s thinking maybe shooting Crowley here and now is maybe the best answer to it all.

“You could kill me,” Crowley goes on, like he’s reading Dean loud and clear. “Wouldn’t make a difference. Another demon would take my place, want the same thing.” Crowley’s eyes narrow a notch, smile still playing around his mouth. “And they’d be more likely to send in their troops. We both want the same thing. We _all_ ,” Crowley stresses the words to include Jax, “want these demons gone.”

He sounds so fucking _reassuring_ that it makes Dean sick to his stomach. He wants to shoot him on principle, but dammit, Crowley’s right. The demon that would take his place wouldn’t likely be willing to deal. And it’s not like Dean wasn’t going to find out what the demons were after anyway. But agreeing to kill someone before he even knows why, or whether or not they can be saved, because a fucking _demon_ is blackmailing him…

“One life against the massacre of a whole town. Can’t imagine what your answer’s going to be,” Crowley says, deadpan, brows rising.

God dammit. Motherfucking demons. He’s so tired of this shit. And he really doesn’t have another choice.

“Fine,” Dean grates out the word, lowering the gun. “Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind.”

“Knew I could count on you,” Crowley grins, winking at him—and then vanishes.

Dean shoves the Colt down the back of his jeans with more force than is necessary, and he can _feel_ Jax looking at him.

Dean turns on his heel and walks to the car.

Jax doesn’t say anything, joins Dean in the car, slamming the door shut behind him. There’s a moment of silence, both of them sitting there. 

“He’s right,” Dean snaps. “If it comes down to one person or the whole town--”

“Dean,” Jax says, impatient. “It’s the right choice.”

Dean stops—and looks at him, eyes narrowing. “Same choice you’d make?”

Jax’s face is solemn as he nods. “One person against everyone in Charming…” he lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug.

“No matter who it is?” Dean demands. “What if it’s someone you care about?”

Jax’s jaw tightens as his head turns to the side, gazing out through the windshield, hands clenching together across his knees, hair shaking back and forth, obscuring Dean’s view of his face. “Then we figure out another way.” He pauses before he speaks again. “But we don’t know who, or why.” He looks back to Dean, eyes steady. “Until we do, we ride it out.”

Dean just stares at him for a long moment, and then settles back against the driver’s seat. “All the ways I saw this working out,” he says with a disbelieving shake of his head, “this wasn’t one of them. I expected you to still be stuck at ‘king of hell’.”

“Politics,” Jax says with a bitter smirk, “I get.”

Jax isn’t going to judge him for this—he even _gets_ it, maybe a little too well, despite all the regret in his expression. Maybe running a biker club requires a lot more politics than Dean would have expected. 

Okay. He’s not going to consider what might have to happen if it turns out to be someone like Gemma or Opie. Because they’re on the same page, so far.

He nods in agreement. “We figure it out when we get there.”

Jax nods back, and then settles into the passenger seat. 

“You gonna tell the club about this?” Dean asks.

“Not until we know more. Them being paranoid about who it is…” Jax shakes his head. “It’s better if we know, first.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding slowly. “Yeah it is.”

Dean turns the key in the ignition, smell of poppies filling his nostrils. 

 

*

 

The clubhouse is in full swing when they get there a few minutes later. Jax barely makes it through the door ahead of Dean before Bobby throws an arm around his neck, laughing drunkenly and dragging him off to the lounge area, talking into his ear.

Jax puts an arm around Bobby, clapping him on the back, throwing Dean a glance over his shoulder that’s both amused and patient.

Dean isn’t sure exactly what that means, so he nods in return, and then looks around the room. Tig and Happy are sitting on one of the couches, talking and passing a joint back and forth, and Sack and his girl are off in their own world on the other end, her sitting on Sack’s lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, ruby red lips a bare inch away from his as she speaks. Everyone else seems to be clustered around the bar, tossing back beers as they talk and laugh.

Yeah. It’s time for bed. He’s tired, not to mention sore, and even if he is a little bit curious about what Jax is doing, it’s none of his fucking business.

He makes it three steps in the direction of the doorway to upstairs when Opie steps out in front of him. 

Dean would have to look up a lot further than he’d like to meet the man’s eyes, but he doesn’t, because his eyes are focused on the blade Opie’s holding up between them.

“Thought you might want this back.”

And now Dean does look up at him, sees blue eyes looking back stoically. Opie’s obviously not drunk.

Dean glances over his shoulder, back to where Jax and Bobby are standing in the middle of a circle of women—sweetbutts?—and then looks back at Opie.

“Keep it until the morning. I need to mix this,” he glances at the bag slung across his shoulder, “and sleep.”

“You expecting trouble?”

“No. But just in case.”

Something shifts in Opie’s eyes, and then he nods, flipping the knife down next to his hip. He moves a step to the side so Dean can pass by.

Dean walks past, giving Opie a last look, and then he’s at the stairs, boots clunking against the wood as he makes his way up.

 

*

 

It takes him about an hour to mix up the mojo for the tattoo ink--an hour listening to the chorus of loud voices downstairs occasionally punctuated by drunken laughter. They sound like they’re having a blast down there, and he hasn’t heard a single footstep go past his door yet.

He caps the glass bottle, pushing the cork deep as he eyes the milky liquid inside, and then sets it down on the back of the sink. His hands are sticky with poppy juice, fragments of them clinging to his fingers and the edges of the bottle, bathroom floor shiny in spots and littered with petals.

Soap and water takes care of it all quick enough, and he tucks the bottle into his bag along with the remaining components. When everything’s clean and put away, he strips out of his clothes and turns on the shower, still feeling vaguely sticky in places that have nothing to do with poppies.

The spray of water hits his back as he steps inside, shocking his skin with sudden, scorching heat, steam rising all around him. The reasons he’s still feeling sticky are impossible to forget, washcloth drawn up the half-hard line of his cock, soap slicking the way. Fuck, the way he’d come, cock trapped between his belly and the friction of the Impala, not even touched—

All he can see is Jax on his knees, those blue eyes looking up at Dean through slits, his mouth wrapped around Dean’s cock, water beading on his face, feel the way his tongue rides down the center vein, lips sucking to the base quick and hard. Blinking back water, staring straight into Dean’s eyes, as he dips his head and pulls back, Dean grabbing him by the hair and cursing, hips lunging, rushing to fill him.

Water and spit slicking his cock, holding Jax there while Dean fucks his mouth recklessly, ass hitting the wall between thrusts and pushing off, angling up and he feels so fucking amazing, taking Dean deep and perfect, eyes burning into his.

He comes with a shuddering skid of hips, skipping and stuttering against his palm, cock pulsing out the last, weak burst of what it has left to give, dribbling against the washcloth, sensation racking him head to toe. Shoulders braced against the wet tile, hips driving into his own hand, shaking with the force of it, head spinning.

He rides out the last jagged, dry bursts, teeth gritted together, pumping into his hand on instinct, shivering with how good it feels.

Hot water streams down his belly, splashing against his spent cock, making him twist and hiss, stomach muscles contracting in a last, empty explosion of pleasure.

He’s panting, heart thundering in his ears as he comes down, slowly pulling his teeth away from his lower lip, hand wrapped around his cock falling away, washcloth still clinging wetly to his palm.

He waits until his heartbeat slows, until he can breathe normally again, and then washes the rest of his body, tossing away the washcloth, palms planted against the front wall of the shower, head tilting back in the stream as it courses down over him, rinsing him clean.

He reaches down and cuts off the flow of water, blowing the moisture from his lips, opening his eyes.

Feet against tile, towel traveling over his skin in quick, efficient strokes, wrapping around his waist before the curve of the Colt’s handle hits his palm. His other hand opens the door to the bathroom, eyes traveling over the room to make sure he’s alone before he steps through the doorway, body still occasionally dripping water.

Sounds of the party are still echoing up from downstairs and he’s safe. Everything’s cool. 

He’s exhausted, wrung out. It’s been a rough couple of days, but there’s also the fact that he hasn’t come this many times in a single day since—

He cuts off the image of Sam, sixteen and spread open underneath him for the first time, sweating out against cheap motel sheets in mid-afternoon sunlight. Sam, perfect and alive and breathing, so eager. So gorgeous, even though Dean will never admit it to anyone.

Guilt hits him, sharp as jagged glass, twisting up through his guts, shards threading all through him. God. No. That isn’t… this isn’t—

He shouldn’t be thinking of Sam now, especially like _that_. That was… well, if Dean knew what that was, he’d probably be a lot more sane, or maybe care more that he isn’t.

“We were more than that,” Dean whispers, his voice breaking against the words, splintering in his throat, and he can see Sam standing right in front of him, huge frame towering over Dean.

_Sam reaches out, fingers ghosting against Dean’s jaw, hazel eyes huge and solemn. “We **are** more than that.”_

Dean’s hands tighten into fists, eyes squeezing shut.

_“We always will be,” Sam whispers, fingers trailing away._

God. Fuck. He can’t. He can’t.

It feels like hours before Dean’s lashes flutter open, blurred vision seeing nothing but the room around him.

He swallows hard, and then he walks to the light switch, flicking it off. He throws the towel on the floor and crawls between the covers, skin still damp and bare, Colt held tightly in his grip beneath the pillow.

 

*

 

Sam’s waiting for him behind his eyelids, terrified hazel eyes and long hair whipping in the wind. Feet perched at the edge of the pit, one last, regretful look thrown back at Dean, eyes welling over.

“I have to,” he breathes. “This is how it has to be,” he says, shaking his head, dark hair shimmering in the sun.

“This is how it always had to be.”

“No.” But Sam doesn’t hear him, hands grabbing, balance shifting, pitching over the edge of the pit, Adam taken with him, and Dean can’t see them fall, but he can see it inside his head, grass and dirt trailing away into blackness, yawning, empty mouth devouring them.

Gone.

It’s the end, Dean knows it, empty and numb, face a sunburst of pain so bright he can barely see at all. Sam’s fists against his face, raising blood beneath the skin, and for a moment, it doesn’t matter that it was Lucifer’s intent—his will guiding Sam—for an instant none of it matters, and he wishes for those fists against him, anything of Sam to touch him. But the pit swirls, open and devoid of anything now, slowly eating back against the grass, dissolving.

A hand rises over the rim, knuckles bony and clutching against the ground. Frost that he knows belongs to Lucifer rising up the blades of grass before they wither and die.

Fingers outstretched, and he can’t see his brother’s face, except for how he _can_ , eyes pleading, desperate and begging.

“Come with me, Dean.”

Fingernails icing beneath the edge, and he knows it’s not Sam, but it’s Sam’s body, and fuck, he _wants_ to reach out and take it, let it pull him into whatever hell is waiting at the end.

Dean wakes, sweat standing out in sharp, cold relief against his skin, sitting bolt upright.

Dream. Just a dream, he tells his racing heart, hands rubbing down his cheeks, thumbs catching underneath his jaw.

The same fucking dream he has every night, for fuck’s sake.

He’s fine.

Yeah, he thinks with a shaky, bitter laugh, falling back against the bed.

Fine.

Sounds echo up through the floor, loud voices and music as he pushes the dream away. The party’s still going on downstairs, and Dean’s got admiration for their stamina. Can’t help but wonder where Jax is, now. 

Not that it matters.

He turns his face into the pillow and closes his eyes, shutting out the sounds below.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

The clubhouse is still when Dean opens his eyes, silent, bedroom filled with the first, early rays of sun.

He’s pretty sure he would’ve noticed if everyone got killed last night, so that must mean everyone’s still sleeping off last night’s party.

He makes his way to the shower and rinses off the sweat of the night, two minute burst of water running over his skin, hot and steaming. It pretty much feels like heaven, and right now, only coffee could make it even better. He shuts off the water and steps out, drying off, dripping against the bathmat.

Towel clutched in one hand, fingers of the other rising to ride the design inked into his chest, tracing it from memory. He can remember so clearly, Sam in the chair, wincing against the needle, Dean trying not to burst out laughing the whole time. Sam’s face, as he’d watched Dean go through the same thing, unsuccessful at not laughing.

It hadn’t been a big thing, but they’d done it together. This ink, under his skin, connected to Sam—just like everything else in his life. 

He pushes the thought away, wrapping the towel around his waist.

He has work to do today. 

 

*

 

The clubhouse is still silent once he’s clothed and ready, and he debates a moment before he opens the door, turning left to walk down the hall, all the way to the end. The knock on the door echoes loudly in his ears, and he tries not wonder what might be on the other side.

“Come in,” Jax calls, voice rough with sleep.

Dean turns his hand around the knob and opens the door. 

Jax is lying in bed, alone, on his back, bare from where the covers rest against his hips up to the blue eyes fixed on Dean with full attention.

Fuck.

It’s a moment before Dean can track all that bare skin and focus on Jax’s face. The look that greets him when he gets there is amused, inviting, and he’s a split second away from throwing down the bag and taking Jax up on it.

A door opens down the hall, breaking the look between them as Dean turns his head. Sack and his girl are talking as they walk out, something about pancakes.

Jax is even more amused when Dean looks back, hands clasped behind his head, and it’s sinful, the way he’s laid out against the white sheets. 

Dean’s tempted for a moment, but there are people awake, and he’s… not ready to deal with the consequences of that, isn’t sure Jax is either, despite the way he’s looking at Dean right now. Motherfucker.

“See you downstairs,” Dean says.

Jax nods and begins to turn, reaching for his cigarettes on the night table, with bare, tanned skin, muscles flexing in the sunlight beginning to pour in through the blinds.

Dean tears his eyes away and shuts the door.

 

*

 

Opie gives him the knife back before breakfast, and all he can do is nod.

“Thanks.”

 

*

Dean catches the name of the tattoo artist--Freddy--as they enter, and several of the guys, including Jax, greet him with one armed hugs and claps on the back. It takes a while of talking, Jax showing him the liquid Dean had mixed up the night before, talking about the design, and Dean keeps one ear on the conversation as he slowly paces the room, looking at the pre-made tattoo artwork on the wall.

They sort it after a bit, and Freddy mixes the ink, cautious until he sees how it merges, running a sample through a needle, and then he’s all in, ready to start working.

Jax goes first—probably a Sons thing on account of being president, Dean guesses. As he watches, Jax sits down in the chair and strips off his shirt with one quick tug, draping it over the back of the chair. 

Dean has seen Jax’s chest, once in the dim light of Jax’s room, and then a brief glimpse this morning, but those were nothing compared to the bright lights of the tattoo parlor. Cut, is what he would have called it, but Jesus… _chiseled_ is a better word for it. He isn’t hugely muscled, just about perfect for his frame, carved muscles rippling underneath his deep California tan. He’s completely unselfconscious as he leans back in the tattoo chair—or fuck, like he knows what he looks like and doesn’t mind showing it off, the way he’s practically sprawled in it like he owns it.

Jax sticks an unlit cigarette between his lips as Dean watches the artist transfer the design, fingers stroking over Jax’s skin through the thin paper, spanning across Jax’s left pec, thumb catching underneath the muscle before he releases. Brown nipple framed between the circle of his thumb and forefinger as he lifts the needle, flicking on the power. Touching down against Jax’s skin, rat-tat-tat rhythm as it pierces skin.

Jax leans his neck in Tig’s direction, chin jutting out, and Tig lights the cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes a drag from it as he settles his head back against the chair, blowing out a cloud of smoke, and he looks like pure sex, half naked and loose-boned, laid back in the chair, tattoo needle drilling ink into his skin. His eyes meet Dean’s across the room, glittering heated, knowing blue, lazy smirk curling one corner of his mouth as he takes another drag off his cigarette.

Dean’s tongue peels away from the roof of his mouth as his lips part. Jesus. 

Jax lifts his right hand, tugging the cigarette away from his mouth and blowing out another cloud of smoke, his eyes steady on Dean’s the whole time, like he knows exactly what this is doing to Dean. 

He’s half hard already and in serious need of a seat unless he wants everyone catching on, though he’s pretty sure Jax knows already, the fucker. The light in his eyes is dancing with silent laughter as Dean finds his way to a chair and sits down—the kind of laughter that fills Dean with a sudden, violent need to pin him against that chair and fuck it right out of him.

What he’s feeling must be showing in his face somehow, because Jax coughs, trying to hold back a laugh, and Dean feels his blood heat up, quicken through his veins. Oh, this is _so_ on. 

Freddy pauses his work, saying something to Jax that Dean doesn’t give a fuck about, and Jax looks away from Dean, saying something back. Freddy nods, poising his hand over Jax’s chest and presses down on the switch, needle piercing skin with machine gun rhythm, and Dean can see the first black line beginning across the curve of Jax’s pec.

He can feel Jax’s eyes on him again, like they’re boring holes through him, but he watches the way the design takes shape for a while, elbows pressed against his knees, fingers of both hands locked into a single fist between them. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, watching ink pushed underneath Jax’s skin, but he knows how it feels on the other side, to be half-hard with the sensation. Dean’s eyes travel across the tattoo artist’s back, ignoring the images painted there, fixing on the crotch of Jax’s jeans, satisfied when he sees Jax isn’t immune, raising his gaze. Jax’s eyes glimmer at Dean through slits as he sucks down the last drag off his cigarette. 

Dean’s smile is even more smug than Jax’s, Jax narrowing his eyes as he takes in the sight of it. Jax reaches out with his right hand, stubbing his smoke into the ashtray, eyes following to track the movement, and then he lounges back against the chair, joints loosening even _more_ \--which Dean wouldn’t have thought possible—legs spreading a little wider against the chair like an invitation, chin slowly pulling up, challenging Dean.

Dean’s pretty much an expert when it comes to reading “You want this? Come and get it, if you think you can.” He’s also pretty much an expert in winning that particular battle.

His expression must communicate that, because suddenly the laughter leaves Jax completely, replaced by something darker, hotter.

Most of the Sons are tossing back beers, talking amongst themselves. But Dean can see Opie out of the corner of his eye, the way he’s looking back and forth between them, even covert as it is. He knows he should behave, shouldn’t give away anything, because he’s almost 100% sure that not being 100% heterosexual is a major faux pas in a biker gang.

He knows he should care, but he really doesn’t, eyes torn between the design being inked into Jax’s chest and those smoldering eyes. The blood left his brain a long time ago, and it’s sheer force of will and a public audience keeping his ass against the chair right now.

When the last curve of the suns’ fire is finished, tattoo gun dying out into background noise, bandage in place, he’s on his feet, watching as Freddy hands off a tin of Tattoo Goo to Jax, last words of thanks spoken between them.

Jax comes up out of the chair with liquid grace, shirt pulled on somehow in the motion in between, and then he’s face to face with Dean.

“Bathroom. Now,” Dean says.

It’s a long look that passes between them, everything spoken in it. Jax turns, leaning down to talk to Opie, and he can hear the low grate of Jax’s voice even at that volume.

“You’re next in the chair.” Off whatever Opie says that Dean can’t hear, Jax replies, “Gotta talk about something. We’ll be fine,” clapping the other man on the shoulder.

And then Jax walks off in front of him, hips and shoulders swaying with the easy grace Dean intends to fuck out of him.

Inside the bathroom, he’s surprised to see a couple of stalls, but all he cares about is the fact that there’s a lock on the door. 

 

\-----

 

Jax hears the lock click into place immediately after the door shuts and spins around—

Dean’s on him before he can even turn all the way around, hands shoving him against the outside of the first stall wall, body slamming into him with a thud that reverberates through the wood, sending his head careening back against it. Dean takes instant advantage of his exposed throat, teeth sinking deep into the edge of muscle around his jugular, hands everywhere, tugging and pulling at him. 

“Gonna…” word growled out, promise against Jax’s throat, “fuck you…” teeth catching sharp against thin skin, “until…” tongue dragging behind, “you can’t walk.”

Jax feels a thrill rush through him, words setting his mind on fire, and fuck, he doesn’t care if he’s never done it before, he _wants_ Dean to do it, wants to feel him all the way inside. He would have done it the very first night.

“Been waiting… long enough,” he growls back, eyes closing against the feel of Dean’s teeth biting deep into his lower lip for a moment before he shoves into it, tongue thrusting inside Dean’s mouth. Dean grabs him by the hair, yanking his head away, back against the stall, green eyes burning down into his.

“Was starting to think… you were… too big a girl to fuck me.” Jax grins, grabbing Dean by his shirt, feet positioning, moving his weight to spin them around. Dean falls backward maybe a couple inches before he grabs Jax by the wrists, tearing his hands from Dean’s shirt and slamming them back against the wall, knee turning neatly between Jax’s, upper body following the motion, pinning him chest to chest to back against wood. It happens so quick Jax can barely track it, isn’t sure how Dean can move that fucking fast. He makes it feel so _easy_ , but Jax has been brawling all his life—he knows how much skill it takes to be able to pull off a countermove like that, and do it effortlessly.

Dean’s just that good. And it’s incredibly fucking hot. Tight body grinding against his, teeth fastened to his neck, hands pinned on either side of his head, and Dean feels like a war waged against him, demanding, taking, shifting to counter Jax’s every move, sweat making their skin slip, t-shirts sticking together, hips grinding into him, both of them harder than diamonds. 

“Motherfucking teasing me like that…” Dean grates, teeth tearing away, pulling skin with them for an instant before they release—and then Dean yanks him by the wrists, spinning him around so fast that it takes a split second for it to register that he’s shoved chest first against the stall, face following after, rough hand seizing in his hair, turning his cheek against it.

Shoved up against a bathroom stall, and he’s never let anyone do this—never let anyone throw him around like this, isn’t really trying to let it happen now, except for how it is, and how it’s making his cock twitch and leak inside his boxers. Jesus, Dean’s fucking hot, so strong. He could fight back—knows Dean would stop if he was serious—but he doesn’t want to, and they both know it.

One hand pressed against the back of his neck, other opening his belt buckle with talented fingertips. 

“Do it,” he breathes.

Dean hisses out a breath down the line of his spine, his pants and boxers peeled away with the motion, spine arching into the bite of Dean’s teeth at the curve of his ass. Tennis shoes pulled away in an instant, boxers and pants yanked free a split second later, and then Dean’s sliding back up his body, tongue snaking a wicked line up the inside of his thigh, thumbs digging hard between the line of muscles there, spreading him wide.

Tongue spiraling, thumbs rising to spread him further apart, fingernails digging into his hips, and then he can feel the tip of slick muscle pushing inside him.

He arches, chest sliding up the outside of the stall, ass pushing into Dean, head tipping back, mouth falling open. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Point of Dean’s chin touching his body, holding him open wide, tongue thrusting deep inside, twisting, turning, his thigh muscles shivering, barely supporting his weight before he reaches up, fingers grabbing the edge of the stall and holding on.

“Doing this to you... next chance I get,” he breathes, hips arching to take Dean.

Dean laughs, deep and dirty, vibrations echoing through Jax, his whole body shivering, and he’s so gonna make Dean pay for this—make him pay and make it count—but right now, Jesus _fuck_.

Dean tongues him until he feels like his head is going to fall off, fucking back into every thrust shamelessly, fingernails slipping at the edge of the stall wall, barely holding on. The way Dean slides up his body is criminal, should be against the law in every state, fingers riding along the edge of his ribs, slipping inside the pocket of his cut.

He isn’t sure what Dean’s doing, couldn’t give a damn as he grinds back into the feel of his hips.

Nothing else registers until he hears the sound of metal being twisted open, and he understands Dean has the Tattoo Goo—slick fingertip pressing against him, liquid heat pushing inside, parting the muscle with a sensation that makes him bite down hard against his lower lip, pain and pleasure in equal measure, can’t stop the involuntary thrust of his hips. 

God, yes.

Wicked and dirty and perfect, the way Dean fucks him with a single finger, body pressing in against Jax’s spine, teeth buried in his neck, and if he’d known it felt like this before… 

The thought breaks off as he grinds his ass into Dean’s hand, stiffens and spikes against the way it feels—

Second finger pushing inside him, working delicious rhythm, barely stroking against something inside him that makes him shiver and buck, quiver and hiss.

“So ready for it.” Dean’s voice is thick, heavy with sex, fingers pushing up inside him with a twist that leaves him breathless.

He’s so beyond ready, angling and thrusting against Dean’s fingers. 

Dean surges against him, body riding up Jax’s spine. Sound of something that’s surely a condom being torn open, scant moments before Dean’s right up against him, cock just as slick as his fingers, slipping before they dig into Jax’s shoulders, shoving Jax up and into the wall as he thrusts. Wet, hot, cock pushing inside him, stretching him wide, flare of pain and flash of pleasure, and he can’t breathe for a few seconds, nails scraping wood, lungs dragging in air as Dean slowly thrusts home, gripping him by the shoulders.

Dean hits bottom, and God, Jax had no idea what it was like to feel this full, sting slowly fading. For a moment they’re still, joined together just like that, bodies molded spine to chest, both of them shivering and cursing—and then Dean drags out of him and Jax feels like his eyes are going to roll back in his head. Sweet, slick slide pulling to the rim, and then Dean pushes up off the balls of his feet, cock rushing to fill Jax so fast and hard, hips angling so it hits a spot inside Jax that sends a burst of pleasure through him so intense that he can’t catch his breath before Dean does it again.

“Holy… shit,” he manages to gasp out as Dean drills into him again, squeezing the wooden wall tight between his fingers, and then he _moves_ , spine angling, ass arching, pushing down to meet Dean’s next thrust, rewarded by Dean’s gasp of pleasure and the way it feels like the world’s going to explode when their bodies meet, slamming together, sending a jolt through him. He rolls into the motion, riding it forward and then pushes down and back, body rippling to meet Dean’s, and God, fuck yeah.

Dean’s hands fly from his shoulders then, grabbing him by the hips, nails digging into his skin, shoving his hips against the wall. The weight of Dean’s chest pushing against his back, holding him still and fucking into him so hard that his cock skids a couple inches up along polished wood. He’s so fucking hard he feels like he could come just from that.

“I’m…” hot breath against Jax’s ear, cock driving into him, “fucking…” Jax’s hips bouncing off the wall with the force of the next thrust, “ _you_.” Dean’s voice is dark, edge of danger to it, and it hits Jax’s brain like heroin, setting his blood on fire—one hand holding his hips, the other fisting in his hair, Dean fucking him so hard and deep and fast that he feels like he’s going to come apart with it.

Jax isn’t sure he could move if he _wanted_ to right now, Dean drilling into him hard enough to make him lose his mind, cock rubbing against that sweet spot inside him with every merciless thrust, pinned against the wall, just taking it, and Jesus it feels so motherfucking good.

Muscles winding into knots, sweating out into the shirt inside his cut, Dean hammering into him, Jax’s cock aching, leaking, grazing and grinding against smooth wood and it’s almost enough—almost. 

“Need…” he gasps, lower lip dragging against the wall.

“Not…” twist, grind, slide, “until…” fucking him until he can’t even speak, “I’m…” growl and purr, teeth scraping up the line of his throat, “done with you.”

Hand winding tighter in his hair, and he’d probably beat the shit out of anyone else who tried it, but on Dean, it’s just fucking _hot_. Hot like the center of the sun, and Jax can feel the heat working all through him, rising from balls to belly. So close, need riding a hard line against his nerves, Dean all over him and inside him, lips and teeth and tongue and hands and cock, strong, tight body driving into him again and again, fucking him until he feels useless with it.

“Fuck.” Hand tightening in Jax’s hair to the point of pain, and he can feel the way Dean shudders and ripples against him, the way his cock flexes as he fucks deep inside, thrusting up off the balls of his feet, shoving just a little deeper, holding there as he comes, whole body trembling. Long, slow, drag and _push_ , riding it out, Dean’s hands fisted in him hair and hip, and it’s so hot it’s almost painful.

“Fuck. Gonna.” 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, hand sliding around Jax’s hip, closing around his cock.

He bucks into the feel of Dean’s fingers, rough palm jerking up the length, muscles in his stomach tightening, pleasure rushing up like lightning, spilling out through his cock, obliterating everything else as he fucks into Dean’s palm, teeth biting so deep into his lower lip that he’ll taste blood later, but he doesn’t taste it now, doesn’t feel anything except Dean deep inside him, hand tugging and pulling, thumb flicking under the head of his cock, and fuck, Jesus fucking _Christ_.

Teeth catching in the meat of his shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise as he keeps coming, cock dragging through the slick friction of Dean’s fist, hips shuddering involuntarily. Head falling back against Dean’s shoulder, dick shoving into Dean’s hand until his brain goes with the last pulse, body stuttering out.

When he’s done, Dean’s hand slides from his hair, gliding down the line of his neck, palm pressing against his shoulder. Jax stands there, most of his weight leaning back against Dean, not really caring as he pulls in deep breaths, realizing that in all the times he’s been here, he’s never looked up at the ceiling before. 

“You all right?” Dean asks, voice rough, raspy. 

“Fine,” he replies, tugging himself up by his hands. Dean pulls out of him, away, both of them putting themselves back together slowly. Boxers, jeans, socks and shoes pulled back on, and Dean’s standing there when Jax is finished; both of them cleaned and zipped up, hands washed, Dean’s eyes flickering against Jax’s like he’s not sure how to look at him now that it’s all done.

“Motherfucker,” Jax mutters, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him around. Teeth sinking into Dean’s lower lip, pushing him against the wall, feeling the tension leave Dean in an instant. He couldn’t get hard again right now if he tried, but feeling Dean against him makes him want to. 

Dean chuckles into his mouth, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. For a moment, he looks almost relaxed, lazy against the stall, all sex and confidence, eyes heavy lidded, smirk curling his mouth, so goddamned hot, and Jax has no idea where he even came from. Just here, all of a sudden, right in the middle of his life.

He doesn’t have to tell Dean there’s payback coming—that’s obvious, understood, as is the way Jax gets that Dean’s looking forward to him trying. Asshole. Jax shakes his head, just looking back at Dean for a second, can’t help chuckling as he pulls away, fingers reaching automatically for the battered pack of smokes inside his jeans.

He’s pulling one from the pack as Dean pushes off the stall wall. 

“I need to get back out there,” Jax exhales, lighter tucked back into his pocket.

Dean nods like he understands. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

Opie’s eyes meet his the second they leave the bathroom, and Jax gives him a nod, letting him know everything’s cool. He can see Opie’s almost done in the chair, can see, too, that letting Opie know everything’s cool isn’t going to be enough, eventually.

He’ll deal with that when it comes.

Right now, he cracks open a beer from the warming six pack on one of the chairs and settles in next to the rest of the club, Dean sitting down the space of an empty chair away on the other side. He hands it off to Dean, barely glancing across his shoulder, their eyes meeting for a moment before Jax turns and pulls out another one, twisting it open.

He’s halfway through his beer when Tig gets up and clasps his shoulder, pushing past Jax. Jax figures he’s on the way to the bathroom, and then Tig’s weight falls into the chair on the other side of Dean, furthest away.

He curls his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and waits to see which way this is gonna go.

 

\-----

 

Dean glances over when Tig sits down next to him, surprised and more than a little wary. He isn't sure exactly what Tig's role in the club is--though the patch that reads “Sergeant at Arms” sewn into his vest gives him a vague idea--but the guy doesn't strike Dean as being all that stable. Like Dean has room to talk, but still, there's something about Tig that sets him on edge, getting right up inside Dean's instincts.

Tig sits forward, elbows resting against his knees, beer bottle held in one hand, dangling between.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Tig asks with a shake of his head, turning his neck to look at Dean.

Dean isn’t surprised that Tig doesn’t waste any time on pretense. He understands he’s being asked a question that doesn’t actually require an answer, and he doesn’t bother trying to give one.

“Before you... there was no shit like this.”

Dean bristles, shoulders straightening into a line. He gets it, he does, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“They all know you.” Tig swings his beer out on a slight arc. “Maybe,” he says, blue eyes thoughtful, “they came here for you.”

Dean grits his teeth together and tries to remember this is one of Jax’s brothers. “Or maybe I’m here to help _you_ ,” he says, delivering the words with something less than kindness. He can practically _feel_ Jax listening.

Tig meets his angry gaze without flinching, look like he’s taking in the measure of Dean. “You’re here to help,” he says after a moment, suspicion still glittering in his eyes. “What I don’t get is why.”

Dean rolls his lips together between his teeth, smirking and biting down hard before he answers. “Because it’s what I do.”

“So you ride all over the country, saving people?” Tig sounds less than convinced, and Dean’s about had it with this shit.

“Yeah,” he grates. “In between riding unicorns and slaying dragons.”

The corners of Tig’s mouth turn upward in the hint of a smile as he considers Dean for an uncomfortable moment. “Doesn’t sound like a fairy tale.”

“Trust me, it’s not,” Dean mutters, voice dripping bitter sarcasm and a hint of anger. He wouldn’t even still be sitting here if it weren’t for—

If it weren’t for the situation this town is in, and how they need his help. 

When Tig speaks again, his voice is thick with curiosity, like he really doesn’t understand. “So why do it?”

Dean huffs out a bitter laugh, and thinks that’s such a good question, despite how much it pisses him off. It’s got a simple answer, too. “Someone has to.”

Tig looks at him, eyes glittering in the light, and for an unsettling instant, Dean feels like Tig’s staring into him all the way down to his soul. And then Tig strokes a thumb across his jaw, face catching on a strange expression before he turns away, nodding. After a moment, Tig tilts his head back, draining the rest of his beer, elbow falling against his knee. “You need another beer?”

Dean blinks, trying to figure out what Tig is actually asking. From all appearances it’s just whether or not Dean wants another beer. Okay, then. “Sure.” 

Tig brings two back from the cooler, handing one off to Dean as he falls back into the seat beside him.

“So these demons… they need human bodies?” Tig asks after Dean opens his beer and takes a drink. Dean can barely hear him over the tattoo gun, the music playing in the background.

Demons. He thinks he can talk about demons, even if he isn’t sure why the focus has shifted from him to them, and even if he’s sure he wouldn’t be talking about this at all if he weren’t in the situation he’s in. 

He takes a calculated, thoughtful moment and a long drink from his bottle before he can summon up the words. “They like fucking with your head. Human bodies are best for that. They do way more impressive physical damage as smoke,” he grinds his teeth together in a bitter smirk. “But that’s no _fun_.” 

Tig is silent for a while, taking that in. “They’re all evil?”

“To the core,” Dean says with a quick, unequivocal nod, bringing the bottle to his mouth to chase away the bitter taste that rises at the back of his throat.

“Makes it easier. But the bodies they’re in…” Tig pauses for a second, like he’s searching for the words. “They’re innocent, right?”

Dean remembers when he used to care. When he thought he had room to care. When Sam was the only one left between them who did care, until finally he didn’t anymore. “Had to get over it.”

Tig shakes his head back and forth slowly, settling his beer between his legs. He leans back against the chair, reaching into his leather vest and pulling out a joint. He settles it between his lips, lighter pulled out right behind, hand cupped around the tip as he lights it. He sucks in deep as he pushes the lighter back into his jeans, and then pulls the joint away, squinting against the rising smoke.

He offers it to Dean with a rising turn of his hand, brows raised in silent question, and Dean shakes his head once.

Tig exhales in a long cloud of smoke, head tilting back against the chair, eyes fixed on the glowing end of the joint as he holds it up between his fingertips. “That’s a bitch, man.”

“You get used to it,” Dean says. It is what it is. And he isn’t entirely sure if Tig’s being sincere or not, although oddly, Dean’s leaning toward thinking he is.

“You sure?” Tig asks, offering the joint in Dean’s direction again.

“Yeah.” He’s not at all comfortable here, on the other end of this conversation. There’s no way he wants to get stoned and make himself even more paranoid and uncomfortable.

Tig, though, proceeds to get _very_ stoned, and loose-limbed against the chair, begins to tell Dean some of the craziest half-finished stories he’s ever heard in his life. 

Confusing as it is, it’s not the worst way he’s ever spent a couple of hours.

 

*

 

It’s well past dark and coming up on 10pm by the time they leave the tattoo parlor, Dean driving the Impala behind the Sons on the way back to the clubhouse.

“Right behind you,” he calls out to Jax as the rest of the club follows behind him through the door. He just needs a couple things out of the trunk, and then he’ll feel better about sleeping tonight.

He hears the scrape of a footstep behind him, knows there was nothing there a moment before—knows it’s already too late as he spins around, body flying backward against the car.

“You got a name?” he demands against the pressure closing around his lungs.

“Not important,” she says, shaking her head. Long, straight, black hair shivering around her shoulders, brown eyes almost as dark, slender frame sheathed in skin tight jeans and a leather jacket.

“You need to know something, don’t you?” she asks, taking a deliberate step closer across the gravel.

“I’ve got a list,” he offers, deadpan, grinning like a shark.

He’s pinned against the car, but he could care less.

 _Get closer, sweetheart_ , he thinks, hand so close to the knife at his belt. All he needs is a single second of her not concentrating for him to be able to move.

“You poor thing,” the demon breathes, grinning, leaning closer. “You don’t have a clue what you’re looking for, do you?”

“And you do?”

“Oh, Deany boy,” it chuckles, leaning even closer. “The things I know… you don’t want to know.”

Yeah, maybe not. But still. “You’re the one that can’t find what you’re looking for.”

“Key doormat,” she says, fingertips brushing against his chest.

“Dean,” Jax’s voice is harsh as he steps around the trunk of the Impala, gun held in one hand against his hip.

“Time for me to go,” the demon grins.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass,” Dean grins, facetiously, narrowing his eyes.

And like that, she’s gone, flickering out of existence before Jax can fire a single shot.

The force pressing him against the car dissipates, and he yanks away from it, leading with his shoulder, phone pulled from his pocket as he walks toward the clubhouse door.

Jax follows behind him without a word, all the way through the partying in the club, up and through the doorway of Dean’s room.

“What just happened?” Jax demands, back leaning against the door to close it, gun tucked away in the back of his jeans.

“Demon,” Dean says, thumb pressing against the screen of his phone. “I’ll know more in a minute.”

Jax squints at him, clearly not happy with his answer, but Dean doesn’t have time to elaborate as Bobby picks up the phone.

Dean doesn’t wait through the usual greetings, launching into explanation almost immediately.

“It said what?” Bobby asks.

“Something about a key and a doormat,” Dean says, frowning with confusion. “Key doormat, that’s what it said.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and Dean can almost hear Bobby frowning thoughtfully. “Key doormat?”

There’s another long pause before Bobby says, “Could it have been ‘kwee doormeat’?”

“Could’ve been,” Dean nods. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Hang on…” Dean hears the phone hit the desk, vague sounds of movement in the distance across the line. It’s about a minute and a half before Bobby returns. “It’s Latin,” Dean can hear pages rustle in the background before Bobby spells out the words, “‘Qui dormit’—it means, ‘the one who sleeps’.”

Dean takes that in for a moment. “Let me guess; they wanna wake it up?”

“Ain’t no details, just the title. Someone the demons were looking for a few years back, somewhere in Idaho. But that’d be my guess, yeah.”

“See what else you can dig up on it, Bobby. I’ll give Cas a holler and see if he knows anything.”

“On it.”

“Thanks.” 

He takes a minute to relay the information to Jax, and Jax doesn’t look any happier about it than Dean feels. 

“‘The one who sleeps’? What the fuck does that mean?”

“No idea. But I’m betting we’re gonna find out really soon,” Dean replies, grim.

He hasn’t tried contacting Castiel since… He isn’t even really sure how to get in touch with Cas at this point.

Well, there’s maybe one way, even if it does make him feel like an idiot. He bows his head, letting his eyelids close halfway. 

“Dean… What are you doing?”

“Got another call to make.”

 

\-----

 

Jax frowns, watching as Dean doesn’t pull out his phone, and starts speaking aloud instead.

“I pray to Castiel to… to grace us…” Dean falters, obviously uncomfortable, and Jax wonders if Dean’s finally lost it. “To help…” Dean hesitates and then lets out a sigh. “To hurry up and get his ass down here,” Dean says quickly, and then glances up with one half-opened eye. “Amen.”

“You’re praying?” Jax asks, confused. Dean’s done some weird shit, but—

A sudden fluttering sound breaks the silence, and then there’s a man standing in front of Dean. Jax takes a step back, reaching for his gun, but Dean holds up a hand in Jax’s direction.

“It’s okay,” Dean says. 

“Dean.” The man’s voice is like gravel poured across velvet, almost too deep for his smallish frame.

“Cas.” Dean sounds … happy, relieved for an instant. “Didn’t know if you were still listening.”

Cas—Castiel, Jax deduces. But where the fuck did he come from? He can’t be a demon if he got inside the clubhouse, and Dean doesn’t seem concerned. In fact, Dean has a look on his face like nothing Jax has seen so far. And Castiel…

Jax is sure that half the planet looks at Dean this way on a regular basis, because Dean’s just that hot. But Castiel seems devoted to it.

“I can always hear you,” Castiel says, sincere and intense. “All angels can, if you pray to them.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to penetrate Jax’s brain deep enough to make sense. He’s sure he must have heard wrong.

“He’s an angel?” Jax asks, tone flat. 

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

He looks at Dean, disbelieving. “No angels in your journal.”

Dean lips compress into a thin line, and he takes a break from staring at Castiel to glance at Jax. “There was an apocalypse coming up. Not much chance to update.”

Demons are one thing… but fucking angels? “You’re fucking with me.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth hitches up in a smirk. “Tell me about it. I knew about demons years before we ever encountered an angel. Still couldn’t believe it the first time he showed up.”

“I can _still_ hear you,” Castiel says, voice gruff.

“We need your help,” Dean says, looking back to Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes give Jax a once over, and shit, maybe he just makes a habit out of staring at people way too intently. Jax hooks one thumb into his pocket, fishing a cigarette from the pack stashed in his other, staring right back as he puts it between his lips.

“He’s a friend,” Dean says, and Castiel’s gaze snaps back to Dean.

Jax gives Castiel another glance, doubtful. “He doesn’t look like an angel.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Dean looks back to Castiel. “Show him.”

Something passes between them in the ensuing silence, and then Castiel rolls his eyes to one side. 

Castiel turns that intense gaze back on Jax, and the entire room seems to shrink around him, fading to the background. Lights flickering, throwing sparks, wings like black smoke unfurling behind him and spreading wide, and he seems taller, _larger_ , so huge that he nearly fills the room, power rolling off him in waves that leave Jax feeling loose limbed and weak-kneed.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers.

Castiel lets his wings furl, power shrinking back into his form, lights twitching before they settle. “No,” Castiel says, still looking at him with those intent, slightly confused eyes. “Why does everyone always think that?”

He’s dead serious, Jax realizes, heart still pounding inside his chest, and he wants to laugh. Castiel looks completely normal and harmless, standing there now, but a few seconds ago…

Fuck. He’s handling demons, the weird water chick thing, the existence of vampires and werewolves. He guesses he can handle some fucking angels, too.

“Okay,” he nods at Dean.

“What do you need, Dean?” Castiel asks, and Jax notices there’s something off about the way he speaks—formal and measured. He’d noticed it before… he just… hadn’t quite been able to put a finger on it. He can now. Castiel talks like he’s not used to… talking like humans do.

Dean takes a step closer to Castiel. “We’re up to our asses in demons around here— _Lucifer’s_ demons,” Dean adds, voice filled with meaning. “They’re looking for someone. ‘Qui dormit’, ‘the one who sleeps’.”

Castiel regards Dean an odd look that slowly settles into something knowing, expression hinting at amusement. 

“That mean something to you?” Dean asks.

“They’re looking for Lucifer’s next vessel.”

Dean stops moving. “What?”

“Lucifer’s secondary vessel,” Castiel says, corners of his mouth creeping into the closest thing to a smile Jax has seen out of him yet. “His…” he hesitates like he’s searching for the right words. “His back up.”

Dean just stares at Castiel a moment longer, and then takes a step forward. “You’re telling me there’s another vessel?”

“It’s a myth,” Castiel dismisses with a tilt of his head. “The children Azazel tainted all competed for…” Castiel’s expression goes serious again, like he’s only just remembered something. “For the place to be Lucifer’s vessel. Azazel spent centuries bringing that plan to fruition.”

“And you don’t think maybe he had a back-up plan?” Dean demands, advancing another step on Castiel.

“If Lucifer had another option,” Castiel says levelly. “He would have taken it. Sam held out longer…” Castiel hesitates, mouth closing for an instant, brows drawing together, glancing away. “He held out longer than anyone thought he could.” Castiel might not be used to talking like a human, but he seems to understand enough about being human to express regret, because it’s there, unmistakable, wound tight through those words.

Jax’s eyes move to Dean as Castiel falls silent, and he can see the tension in Dean’s face, the taut set of his shoulders, and knows Castiel is closer to the subject than Dean wants him.

Castiel pushes his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, turning sideways and looking off into the distance. “The vessel Lucifer was using was dying because it couldn’t hold him. If he could have gotten out, into someone else who could hold him, he would have tried.”

“Or maybe he was saving it,” Dean contradicts, eyes narrowing, like the idea is just taking hold. “If I’d been trying that long to get out of hell and end the world, I sure as fuck wouldn’t bet the farm on one person to get it done.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, shaking his head fractionally. “We searched for the second vessel--”

“And?” Dean cuts him off. “You telling me you know for sure there isn’t a back up vessel?” Dean’s eyes are filled with fire, challenging, and it’s Castiel who looks away first. 

Castiel’s jaw tightens, teeth gritting together. “We’re fairly certain.”

“‘Fairly certain’ doesn’t help me sleep at night, Cas.”

“Dean. There have been rumors of a secondary vessel since Azazel died; nothing has ever come of them.”

“How would you be able to tell?”

“The blood of Azazel is a stain on the human soul once it’s been invoked. When we came to earth, all we had to do was search for it. We only found one who survived the culling at Cold Oak.”

Dean hesitates over those words for a moment, and Jax can see pain flicker across his features for an instant before Dean forces it back. “And if it wasn’t activated?”

“Then it’s too late. Azazel is dead.”

“You’re saying Azazel’s the only one that could turn them on?” He flinches as soon as the words leave his mouth and makes a face. “Bad word choice. That’s a mental image I didn’t need.”

Castiel doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s word choice. “Yes. Only the one who made them could wake them.”

“Wake them?”

“Cause their power to manifest.”

“That’s why they call this one ‘the one who sleeps’,” Dean murmurs. 

Castiel nods. “And why Sam’s powers died with Azazel. Without significant amounts of demon blood to fuel them,” he amends. “But the power has to manifest before it can be fed. Sam was the last.”

Dean glances away, and then nods as if conceding the point. “Then why are there demons crawling around Charming?”

“Rumors. Hope. This isn’t the first town this has happened to.” 

Dean shifts his stance back a fraction, thinking that over. “So you’re saying this is like… the demons’ version of the Holy Grail?”

Castiel frowns lightly at Dean, as if he’s trying to puzzle out Dean’s meaning. “No. It’s nothing like the Holy Grail at all.”

“I meant the epic quest for something that doesn’t actually exist.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “The Holy Grail exists.”

Dean starts to say something and then stops, mouth closing, brows rising. “Really? You know where it is?”

“Only God knows.”

“Convenient,” Dean mutters. “Okay. But if the Holy Grail exists, maybe this does too. It’s worth checking out.”

Castiel’s brow pulls into a knot, and then he turns his shoulder toward Dean, taking a step forward, expression thoughtful and pensive. “I’ll see if there’s any further lore. But, Dean,” Castiel turns his face, looking across his shoulder at Dean. “It’s unlikely that I’ll find anything.”

“I’ll risk the disappointment,” Dean deadpans. 

Castiel nods, and then regards Dean silently for a moment, his eyes filled with knowledge and hesitation. 

“I’m sorry… about Sam,” Castiel says, clearly uncomfortable, head tilting further to the side, eyes turning downward.

Dean looks down at the ground, too, stands there, one hand clenching into a fist and then loosening. “Yeah.” It’s all he says, voice guttural. 

There’s a sound like the fluttering of wings, and then Castiel is gone as if he’d never been there at all.

Jax wants to ask Dean if he’s okay, wants to ask him if he believes any of the shit Castiel just said. Instead, he stubs out the filter of his cigarette in the ashtray and lights another.

“You still with me?” Dean asks after a minute. 

Jax sucks in a long drag off his cigarette, smoke curling inside his lungs. “Yeah,” he says when he exhales. He’s still here. Even if the disquiet in his stomach is telling him he’s in way over his fucking head.

“But shit, man… angels?” Jax shakes his head. “Are there fucking unicorns, too?”

“Not so far,” Dean offers with the hint of a cynical smirk.

Jax almost smirks back, and then—fuck this—leans down, sliding open the night table drawer, pulling out a joint with expert fingertips. He wants to be somewhere else, give this some time to sink in. “Come on,” he says, motioning toward the door with one shoulder and a tilt of his head.

He can see Dean running calculations inside his head—monsters against how safe they are here, whether or not he should based on whatever the hell else Dean thinks about.

“Where?”

“The roof. Think we’ll be safe there?” he asks, arching a bemused brow at Dean.

Dean nods slowly, green eyes luminous in the low light.

And fuck, Jax just wants him to be comfortable, to relax for once. They could both use it, but screwed up as all of this is, he still feels like Dean needs it more than he does. Dean deals with demons, angels, and apparently, the devil, on a regular basis, and Jax isn’t sure he understands it all completely, but he’s seen enough that he can’t doubt it anymore.

“Promise I won’t take advantage of you,” he says, smiling as his fingers close around Dean’s wrist.

“Liar,” Dean says with a faint smile of his own.

Jax laughs and turns, tugging Dean a step behind him before he lets go, leading the way to the door.

 

*

 

It’s quiet on the roof, rush of the occasional car passing on the nearby highway the only sound breaking the chorus of singing crickets. They’re lying stretched out side by side, loose-limbed and heavy against the roof, and Dean knows concrete can’t possibly be this comfortable, but somehow, it is as he passes the joint back to Jax for the fourth time.

He exhales, watching the cloud of smoke billow into the air, hanging there, holding its shape for a moment before the light breeze pulls it apart.

Jax breathes in another drag, and Dean waves him off when the joint reappears in his line of vision between Jax’s fingers. They’re not actually touching, but Dean can feel him shrug anyway as his hand recedes, exhaling and taking another toke.

He remembers doing this with Sam a few times when they were younger. One particular time on the hood of the Impala underneath a Montana night sky, not a single word spoken, not a single one needed, everything there in the inches separating them, in the huge canopy of stars above, whole story of their lives written out somewhere between.

Back when he knew where he belonged. When they both did.

“You okay?” Jax’s knuckles graze against his shoulder, pushing at him, jarring him from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he says, managing a nod as he remembers it’s not Sam nudging at him, teasing him about being too stoned—Sam always could smoke more than him, which was so not fair. Apparently, so can Jax.

“Lightweight,” Jax teases before he takes another toke.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

They lie there in companionable silence for a long time, staring up at the stars, until Dean’s eyes close, mind drifting against memories of Sam, like sunshine and barbed wire all at once.

He’s been told, again and again, that he just needs time. One day, Sam will be a distant ache; remembered, but faded with time and miles.

But he knows—he knows like no one else ever fucking will—he’ll be dead long before that ever happens, one way or another. He’d rather burn; let the whole world burn, before he lets Sam fade away.

That’s the sick, simple truth of it. 

_“Where does that end, Dean?”_

_He can feel Sam there, next to him, see the hair hanging down across his eyes as he looks down at Dean, fracture of light off his cheekbone as he tilts his head, fingertips trailing down his chest._

There’s only ever been one answer to that question.

It ends bloody.

_“We don’t end.” Sam shakes his head, hair shivering with the motion. “Not bloody. Not ever.”_

He either needs to be higher than he is or not be high at all, because fuck.

_“We don’t end, Dean.” Sam bends close, breath catching against Dean’s chin, and for one, glorious moment, it all feels real._

_“No matter what you do.” Lips brushing against his, solemn promise breathed into him._

Promise and something more.

_“He trusts you,” Sam whispers._

Sam’s features dissolve, sensation of his touch evaporating as Dean’s eyes snap open. There’s nothing there except stars and the empty space around him, running right up against Jax.

Fuck. These are the reasons he should not be high right now.

Beside him, Jax rolls over on his side, propping up on one elbow as he looks down at Dean, his cheek resting against his fist, hair spilling down around his forearm. 

“Still okay in there?” Jax’s mouth curls in a small smile, but his gaze is fixed on Dean, intense and concerned.

Dean doesn’t understand, for the life of him, why Jax cares how he’s doing.

The familiar “Yeah” rises to his lips, on the verge of being spoken, and then he swallows it back, looking away from Jax, up and out at the stars.

Silence stretches between them, and he expects Jax to say something, keep the conversation going, change the subject. But he doesn’t. He stays there, seeming content right where he is.

“I still see him, sometimes,” Dean whispers, voice uneven, catching in his throat. A moment passes, and when Jax doesn’t say anything, he goes on. “Clear as day. Hear him. Like he’s still right here, next to me.”

There’s a pause, and then Jax says, “Maybe he is.”

Dean blinks, turning disbelieving eyes on him.

“Compared to everything else that’s happened the last few days…” Jax lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug, “it doesn’t sound that strange.”

“Or maybe I’m just crazy.”

Jax lifts his shoulder again. “Look. I don’t know everything about what you’ve been through, but I’ve picked up enough pieces to get an idea. It’d be weirder if you _weren’t_ a little crazy.”Jax shakes his head slightly, smile playing ruefully around his lips. “Shit. Sometimes I can’t believe you’re still as sane as you are.”

A bitter laugh curls at the back of Dean’s throat. “In that case, I’m thinking you don’t know what sane looks like.”

Jax tilts his head, unconcerned. “The club’s my life. Just like killing monsters is yours.”

Dean feels the words slip under his skin, sinking like leaden weight to his stomach. He looks away, unable to let Jax see what they make him feel—how fucking heartsick they make him.

“Sam was my life,” he whispers. “This… this is just all that’s left.”

He has a long, uncomfortable moment to regret the words, to curse the fact that he’s high and has no business opening his mouth. And then Jax’s hand falls on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing with light pressure. Dean doesn’t want his pity, but… somehow, he knows if he looked at Jax right now, all he would see is understanding, commiseration. That’s almost worse, because it makes Dean want to keep talking, makes him feel like it would be okay if he did.

“The club is my life because of my brothers…” Jax’s voice is quiet, but strong, confident. “I’ve known some of them my whole life. Most of the rest I’ve known more than half that. If I lost them… “ He trails off and Dean can feel Jax shake his head, understands how that sentence ends without needing to hear the rest.

Dean swallows hard against the lump that wants to form in his throat and breathes in deep. The words, when they come, aren’t as difficult as he thought they would be, but they still hurt. “It was just me and him, all our lives.” He grinds his teeth together, pushing out the rest. “I should’ve died with him.”

The breeze coming in from the west glides over them, caressing Dean’s skin, the only faint sound between them.

“Yeah,” Jax replies, gruff and sympathetic. “I get that.” 

His hand rests, still clasping Dean’s shoulder, and it’s a long time before he says anything else. “For what it’s worth… the people of Charming are glad you didn’t.”

Dean can’t help smiling at that, no matter how much bitterness goes into the expression. He aims it right at Jax, saying, “Pretty sure that’s just you.”

Jax tilts his head fractionally against his fist, blue eyes focused on Dean, and shit, he’s still way too high, the way that look goes right through him. “Maybe.”

For a second, Dean feels like he can’t breathe. He knows Jax is uncomfortable with the fact that he needs Dean here to protect Charming just as much as he knows Jax is glad he’s here to do it, but the look in Jax’s eyes, right here, right now, doesn’t have anything to do with any of that.

“I’m way too high for this shit,” Dean whispers, and Jax laughs, chin turning, pressing into his fist as he shakes his head.

“I am never getting you high again,” he says, turning so he can look at Dean again, amused.

He looks so natural, so comfortable and relaxed. He looks like everything Dean doesn’t feel.

Dean doesn’t think about what he’s doing as he pushes up off the concrete roof, doesn’t have room to think about it, hand sliding up into Jax’s hair, other grabbing him by the hip, pulling him in, instinct guiding his mouth to Jax’s, wet and hot and gloriously messy as they meet.

Jax doesn’t protest, doesn’t say a word as he grabs Dean by the hips and rolls them both over, Dean’s weight landing on top of Jax, mouth surging up, kissing him back.

Dean’s halfway to stripping off his leather vest when Jax’s hands come up, gripping him by the wrists.

“Not here.” Tongue flashing across his lower lip, teeth following after. “Wanna take my time.”

His voice is a low, rolling purr that sinks inside Dean’s mind, erasing all thoughts of fucking him right here on the roof. “Where?”

Jax doesn’t answer, just pushes up from the roof and Dean lets him, follows the motion of Jax’s body until they’re both on their feet, Jax dragging him backward. Navigating the roof hatch means they have to pull apart, and Dean descends the ladder after Jax, has just long enough to think twice about what he’s doing.

The dead, bottom line truth is, he has no fucking _idea_ what he’s doing. And somehow, as Jax pushes him up against the wall at the bottom of the ladder, hands curling in his t-shirt, mouth devouring his, he can’t bring himself to care much.

He pushes off the wall with one foot, grunting into Jax’s mouth as he turns them around, tugging him the few short feet to the door of Jax’s room. Jax spins them around at the last second, body falling against it with a thump, groaning as he yanks Dean in, kissing him even harder. Dean can feel the way Jax’s other hand searches for the knob, the way Jax surges into him as he finds it, pushing forward and then turning them inside the room.

Dean’s back hits the bed, weight of Jax following after, mouth fused to his, muscles rippling down the length of Jax’s body as he rocks slowly into Dean. Dean breathes out hard against the feel of Jax’s dick riding hard along the line of his through their clothes, friction sending sparks stuttering all through him, and shit, he’d forgotten, the way it feels, having sex when he’s this high. The way every touch, every motion goes straight to his brain, cutting off everything else.

Hands moving over his skin, stripping him out of his shirt, mouth trailing a hot line down his throat, tonguing at the pulse, and Dean tilts his head back, breathing out hard, fingers buried in Jax’s hair, whole body arching into the feel of him. Hips rutting together for an instant, sensation hitting him quick and hard, and then Jax slides away, tongue spinning out a thin, slick line across his collar bone, diving into the hollow between shoulder muscle and bone before it flickers lower. Slow spiral down, teeth closing around his nipple, tongue swirling over the tip, and Dean pulls him in, pushes into the sensation, shivering and hissing, hands gripping the back of Jax’s head.

Jax’s hands sliding down his sides, fingers feeling out the musculature of him on the way, tracing out the lines, teeth biting deeper into the sensitive skin of his nipple, pulling away just hard enough to make Dean growl, fingertips flexing against Jax’s skull before Jax slides even lower, tongue licking and twisting all the way down Dean’s stomach with a dirty chuckle.

“Fucker,” Dean grates, hips rolling up slow, stomach muscles rippling.

“Payback’s a bitch,” Jax whispers, and Dean can feel his grin, teeth nipping at the skin just above his jeans.

“Enjoying this… way too much,” Dean gasps, hitching against the bed.

“Almost as much as you are,” Jax smirks.

Dean opens his mouth to make a retort—and then Jax thumbs against the waistline of his jeans, biting lower, and words leave Dean all together. Heat of his mouth so close to where Dean wants it, thin, stinging pain singing along his nerves, dissolving into pure pleasure as it hits his brain. 

Fingers working open the button on his jeans, light touches against his skin as that wicked mouth works against him, sucking blood to the skin until Dean shudders, bucking helplessly, fingernails sinking into Jax’s scalp. Zipper hissing open, hands parting denim, mouth finally relenting its hold, trailing lower, puff of hot air breathed out against the head of his cock before it turns away, fingers knotting in his jeans and yanking them down. 

Dean rolls his body with the motion, jeans sliding to his lower thighs, cock hard and full, bouncing against his belly before it settles, Jax’s cheek sliding up along the side. Face turning, lower lip catching, dragging up the edge, thumbs kneading deep into the grooves of Dean’s hips.

Jax’s lips close around the head of his cock just before he’s willing to beg for it, and his spine arches, bones locking together and grinding as he thrusts into sweet, tight heat. So wet and sleek, perfect suction, and Jesus fucking Christ, his _tongue_ , gliding up from the base, tracing to the tip, flickering across the slit.

He wants to lift his head, look, see his cock disappearing into Jax’s mouth, but the thought alone is enough to undo him, body too focused on the way Jax is sucking his dick to get the message to his neck.

“Fuck,” he groans, hands fisting in Jax’s hair, tugging with his wrists, driving his cock up deep inside Jax’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat, hips stuttering as Jax twists his head, pulling back up the length.

Jax smirks as he pulls off of Dean’s cock, sliding lower down Dean’s body until he can push up the cuffs of Dean’s jeans, taking his sweet unmerciful _time_ unlacing Dean’s boots, eyes drifting back and forth between Dean’s face and laces with a self-satisfied smile.

“You motherfucker,” Dean growls.

“Your wardrobe choice,” Jax grins with an easy shrug.

Jax peels away the first boot, sock stripped away behind, and Dean is going to kill him. Fuck him to death, slowly, probably.

Jax turns his cheek against Dean’s foot, teeth sinking around the arch, tongue sliding along the groove inside, and fuck, _nothing_ should feel that fucking good below his dick, Jesus Christ. Slow swirl of tongue that almost tickles, but doesn’t, feels like pure bliss, cock twitching, short-circuiting synapses in his brain he didn’t even know he had.

He’ll fuck Jax to death tomorrow. Yeah.

Jax pauses long enough to pull away Dean’s other boot and bare his foot, and then his jeans are gone, leaving him completely naked against the bed, Jax crawling up between his thighs, eyes focused on Dean’s as his elbows slide beneath the backs of Dean’s knees, slowly pushing them up.

The look Jax gives him in the moment before he dips his head is searing, so motherfucking scorching hot that Dean can barely stand it, cock leaking a weak trickle against his belly, insides turning a somersault of anticipation.

Spread wide open against the bed, Jax’s arms wrapped around his legs, hands gripping him by the hips, hot breath against the cleft of him— and then sleek, slick muscle parts him, pushing in without warning, thrusting deep, sending his head crashing back against the bed, eyes fluttering shut with the way it feels. Tongue twisting, coiling inside him, tasting and testing him until Dean is writhing against the bed, sweating out against the covers, teeth clenched together, feeling like he’s going to die with how good it is. He bucks his hips against Jax’s chin, grunting with pleasure and deeper need, hand falling to the rock hard curve of his dick.

Jax grabs Dean by the wrist, halting the motion as he licks out slow, tongue dragging a line up the inside of Dean’s thigh, slithering across the underside of his cock. Dean hisses, bucking again, hand twisting out of Jax’s grip, and then Jax slides up the length of him, lips painting lines like fire against his skin until they fasten on the soft space just behind Dean’s ear, licking and sucking.

Dean forgets that he even _has_ hands, white-noise filling his brain with a jolt like lightning, arching into the delicious weight of Jax against him, precious friction against his cock as he grinds.

Jax hums out against his skin, sending another rush through him, and then he whispers into Dean’s ear, each word dripping with sin. “You are so. Fucking. Hot.”

“Dying for it,” Jax breathes, licking against the curve of his earlobe, teeth closing tight around the edge. “Aren’t you?”

It takes a moment for the words to catch hold and make sense, and then he turns his face against Jax’s.

“Fuck. Yes,” he whispers, not even caring anymore, suffused with a single, burning need to feel Jax inside him right fucking now.

He might beg, he isn’t sure, doesn’t really give a fuck as Jax pulls away and strips out of his clothes. Watches with devouring eyes as Jax rolls on a condom and slicks his cock, lost in the delicious tangle in his guts that tells him he is about to get _so_ fucked.

Jax grips him by the thighs, pushing them up and apart, upper body leaning down as his hips fall forward, cock parting Dean with a sudden rush and then sinking slow, wriggling all the way to the bottom. Deep blue eyes staring into him, and Dean… Dean can’t… eyelids fluttering closed, chin tilting upward. Can’t do anything except _feel_ the way Jax buries himself inside, teeth seizing in Dean’s lower lip, twin sensations making him feel like he’s going to burst wide open, whole body quivering, spine twisting, breath hitching.

He shouldn’t… fuck… he shouldn’t have—it’s too—

The thought breaks off as Jax’s hips draw backward, cock sliding slow to the rim, head teasing there, stretching him just a little wider, sudden sting singing into sweetness.

“The way you feel,” Jax gasps, hands sliding underneath Dean, palms fitting to the curve of his ass, lifting him up from the bed, holding, hips trembling before he thrusts, sinking quick and hard to the bottom. Span of a heartbeat, not even enough time to breathe, and Jax drags to the edge, fucking back into him with a twist of hips that sends his teeth crashing together, body bouncing against the bed, white-hot jagged light from belly to brain.

“Feel so fucking good,” Jax breathes out against him, teeth dragging up his throat, hips pounding into Dean, cock driving into him so hard that he feels like he can’t breathe, fingernails skidding recklessly over skin. 

“Yeah,” Jax whispers, hot and heavy into his ear as he hammers into Dean again, “take it.” Jax lets go of his hips, grabs him by the shoulders, pushing off with his upper body, weight holding Dean down, leverage giving him a better angle as he slams into Dean.

Cock head skating across that sweet spot inside him with every single thrust, and Dean feels like he’s going to come apart with the sheer fucking intensity of it. Head tilting back against the pillows, knees parting even wider, pushing his ass up off the bed, calves climbing higher up Jax’s back, taking him even deeper.

“Yeah, fuck. Just… like... that…” Jax pants, words guttered out between thrusts, and Dean can barely even hear him anymore, lost in the way Jax is pounding into him, cock an aching length of need, leaking against his stomach.

“So hot,” Jax groans. “God, so fucking hot…” hips catching in a quick double thrust, shock of pleasure building inside Dean like a supernova, “kills me.”

Rough pads of Jax’s fingertips, skipping up the length of his cock, closing under the head, squeezing, pulling, and fuck, Dean’s so ready, every nerve on edge, balls tightening, muscles clamping down around Jax’s cock.

“Yeah, fuck, come on,” Jax urges, fist tightening around his dick.

Every nerve in his body contracts and then expands, cock spilling out slick and hot into Jax’s fist, hips rutting on pure instinct against relentless rhythm, helping Jax hit that spot that makes him twitch and shudder and come even harder, spurting and twisting helplessly.

“Jesus,” Jax hisses, hips shoving with one last jagged thrust, twisting and swearing, hands falling from Dean’s shoulders, teeth sinking into the curve of his throat, and that’s… God, fuck, that’s…

His dicks pulses out a last desperate gasp along with the breath in his lungs, spattering wet between their stomachs, aftershocks running through both of them like tiny earthquakes, each ripple making the other shiver, feeding into each other. 

Dean isn’t sure how long it’s been when he finally realizes the weight of Jax against him, shifts to breathe, even though he doesn’t really want to.

Jax grunts as he pulls out, sensation leaving both of them breathless for a moment, and then Jax slides off to one side of him, chest and stomach and thighs pressed down the length of his body, arm still slung across his chest where it fell.

Dean licks his lips, moisture of his tongue barely wetting them. “You…” his voice cracks against the word, and he swallows, tries again. “You got a… cigarette?”

“Fuck cigarettes,” Jax chuckles weakly, face burrowing into the curve between Dean’s throat and his shoulder.

And… okay… this feels distinctly like cuddling, no matter how fucked out Dean is… and that’s just… unacceptable. No matter how good it feels.

It takes a few tries before he can get the words out, but when he does, they’re all in one string. “You wanna back up off me, you big fucking girl?”

Jax rumbles out another chuckle, fingers reaching for Dean’s far shoulder and… pulls him in even closer, one leg slinging across Dean’s. So fluid and easy, like this is exactly how things are supposed to be. Like Jax is just used to casually possessing everything and everyone around him.

Dean should leave. He really should. But he’s still stoned, and everything feels warm, and comfortable, and Jax’s body slots up perfectly behind his as he turns on his side, tugging Dean in as he pulls to go.

Fucking octopus.

He falls asleep in the middle of thinking how he’ll stay for a minute or two.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

When Jax wakes in the morning, it’s to Dean sliding out from under his arm, and he gets a nice view of Dean’s bare ass walking to the bathroom before his eyes flutter shut again. 

The bed is still warm with Dean’s body heat where his arm lies across it, and he drifts until he hears the sound of the toilet flushing, eyes cracking open again.

Jesus. Dean’s completely naked, collar bones etched out against skin, hollow of his throat leading to the flat line between his pecs, continuing down through stomach muscles cut like a razor’s edge, tapering down the narrow line of his waist, giving way to the smooth skin between the vee of his hips, the tangle of hair and the jut of his cock. Every line and curve of him carved like a marble statue, edges of his form catching the early morning light. He’s got his gun in his hand, and even if it strikes Jax as paranoid, the whole thing makes for one hell of a hot image.

Dean sets the gun on the night stand, eyes moving across the floor like he’s taking inventory, about to start collecting his clothes and leave.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, and Dean’s eyes meet his.

“Figured I’d better get going before everyone wakes up.” He bends down, picking something up from the floor.

“How’s the ink?” Dean asks when he’s standing straight again, boxers in hand, eyeing Jax’s chest.

“Hell of a lot easier to take care of than my second one was.” 

“You got more than the other one?” Dean’s eyes flicker in confusion to glance at the tattoo on Jax’s arm, and Jax frowns, confused, too, for an instant.

Thinking back, it all makes sense. Dean’s never been behind him when he’s had his shirt off.

Jax grins, rolling over in place, sprawling out on his belly, half-propping himself up on his elbows.

There’s a long—really _long_ silence—and Jax’s grin curves deeper, imagining the expression on Dean’s face.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean breathes out, voice shaky, weight sinking onto the bed, crawling to Jax.

He can almost feel Dean’s eyes tracing out the lines and letters inked into his back, tattooed, perfect replica of the reaper and words sewn into the back of his cut.

“How the fuck did I miss this?”

Dean touches him then, single fingertip drawn against Jax’s skin, echoing the lines and curves inked across Jax’s shoulder blades. Such a light touch, but the heat between their skins sends a ripple of chills down Jax’s spine. 

The brush of Dean’s lips follows close behind, almost like he can’t help himself. “God, so fucking hot,” he breathes, teeth scraping up, across the angle of Jax’s inner shoulder blade, tongue flickering out to taste. Jax’s spine locks down, eyes closing, biceps flexing as he pushes his shoulders up into the feel of Dean’s tongue painting out the shapes of the letters.

Skin tightening into goose bumps, spilling up and down the length of his spine, tingling at the base of his neck, and no one else has ever done this, somehow so incredibly intimate—the words drawn with lips and teeth and tongue over his skin. 

The thought dissolves as Dean trails off at the end of the words tattooed across his shoulders, mouth sliding down across his shoulder blade, teeth closing around his spine for the briefest of instants, making his breath catch, tongue swirling down to the word ‘California’ inked in a half circle across his lower back. He can feel the point of Dean’s chin tilt up, catching against the skin, _feel_ the way Dean is looking at him, mapping out the landscape of his body.

Jax’s teeth catch against the inside of his lower lip, and he wants to move, turn over now, pull Dean on top of him, grin up at him and yank him into a kiss. But he doesn’t. Dean’s… not like anyone else he’s ever known, and he wants to let Dean look as long as he wants, see what happens next.

“You enjoying the view?” he asks, rasping out the words, corner of his mouth curling.

Dean turns his cheek against the swell of Jax’s ass, stubble scraping hard and hot against the skin. 

“I am…” lips dragging hot across the curve, “you vain…” tongue swirling out in a quick flash, “motherfucker,” teeth closing around muscle, seizing deep. 

There’s no judgment in the words, just heat and need, and Jax hisses in a breath, hips pressing down into the bed, friction of the sheets riding up the line of his already hard cock.

“Thought you were leaving,” he manages.

“Shut up,” Dean growls, dangerous tone in his gravelly voice sending another thrill up Jax’s spine.

Tongue swirling, trailing down the inside, hands pushing Jax’s thighs apart, thumbs biting into muscle, and it’s slow, treacherous, the way Dean pushes inside him, slick flex of tongue teasing him open, twisting, curling, turning his brain inside out. Hips arching up off the bed, pushing back into sleek muscle, hands holding the mattress in a death grip, and Dean has to have done this before, a _lot_ , because Jesus Christ.

“Fuck,” Jax groans, spine arching in a slow, shuddering thrust against Dean’s chin, fingernails digging into the bed.

Dean hums a low sound like approval, vibrations rippling inside Jax, sending a spike of pleasure up through his belly. Hands sliding up and over, riding the outsides of Jax’s hips, rough fingertips brushing against skin, sinking in as Dean pulls himself up Jax’s body, tongue sliding free, trailing up along the cleft of him, spiraling out against the base of his spine. Fingertips of one hand drawn back down slow, two of them pressing in, barest pressure against his hole while the rest of Dean moves away, reaching for the night stand.

Jax can see the way he leans, his profile caught in sharp relief by the light, the delineation of his muscles, bare skin and scars. Deft hand retrieving what he needs from the drawer, caught expertly between his fingers, and Jax doesn’t understand how every single thing about Dean can be so motherfucking sexy.

Approximately thirty seconds later he doesn’t understand a single goddamned thing, because Dean’s got two slick fingers buried inside him, working him open, tips just barely brushing against that spot, tongue tracing out the word ‘California’ on his skin.

Fingers running slowly over the design on his back, and then Dean leans down, one hand splayed possessively across the ink under his skin, lips brushing Jax’s neck just behind his ear.

“Gonna fuck you just like this,” Dean’s voice is gravelly and raw with want, whispering in his ear. “So I can see it.”

Jesus. As far as Jax is concerned, Dean can fuck him any goddamned way he wants to, but the way Dean’s getting off on his ink is making him almost painfully hard. 

Slick cock head nudging up between his thighs, and he spreads his legs wider, hips rising to meet it. 

“Want it, don’t you,” he whispers, and Jax feels like his brain is going to melt, that rough voice filling his ear, teeth closing on his neck, cock head pushing in slow, spreading him wide. Dean rocks his hips, slow see-saw back and forth at the edge of the rim, teasing exquisite sensations out of the sensitive nerves there that make Jax gasp and shiver, every instinct screaming to push back against Dean, feel him all the way inside. But Dean’s weight is resting against his ass, pinning his hips, Dean’s hands moving to grip Jax by the shoulders, sliding inside him so sweet and fucking torturously _slow_ that Jax is going to lose his mind.

“Fuck. Come on, Dean. Please,” he gasps, turning his face deeper into the pillow.

Dean makes a low sound in his throat, hips bucking just a fraction of an inch deeper, tongue painting a swirl up behind Jax’s ear. “I was right,” sex-drenched whisper, dripping with sin. “I love to hear you beg.”

Dean shoves with a twist of his hips, cock rushing to fill Jax so deep and hard that Jax can’t breathe for a split second, pleasure barreling up through him, exploding somewhere behind his eyes, body writhing against the bed, hands fisting in the sheets.

“Jesus… fuck,” Jax hisses out, voice straining on the edge of breaking.

“Like that?” Dean breathes, voice just as wrecked as Jax’s.

“Fuck yes. Don’t stop.”

“Gonna take my time,” Dean whispers, dark edge of teasing in the words, and Jax understands this is partially payback for Jax teasing the fuck out of him last night. He’s pretty sure it’s a score that’s never going to even out. Can’t say he really minds, either, not when Dean’s sprawled on top of him like this, filling him up inside, mouth and hands working wicked magic against his skin. Hips drawing back, easing to the rim, angling there, teasing at the sensitive nerves again, mouth sealed against the spot behind Jax’s ear, and he feels so goddamned good, so goddamned perfect, right here, driving Jax out of his mind.

He sinks deep with a steady thrust that pushes the breath out of Jax’s lungs, and somewhere in the intense haze of pleasure when Dean strokes slow across that sweet spot inside him, he’s sure that Dean is just fucking amazing at _everything_ he does.

Weight of Dean’s chest shifting, sliding down, tongue gliding down the line of the ‘f’ inked over Jax’s spine, cock buried inside him, nudging and pushing just a little deeper. Dean’s hands move to grip Jax by the waist, and he pushes up and away, weight coming down behind his palms to support him.

“Jesus,” Dean breathes out, hands spreading out across Jax’s hips, and Jax can almost feel Dean’s eyes devouring him in the instant before Dean moves his hips.

“So hot,” Dean gasps, thumbs and forefingers spread across Jax’s lower back, framing the letters tattooed there, fucking into him with jagged thrusts, all his weight pressing Jax’s cock deep into the bed, sheets faint friction against him. Fuck, he doesn’t even care if he gets off, the way Dean’s fucking him, slow, hard, deep thrusts filling him, hitting that spot inside him that makes his eyes want to roll back in his head, leave him feeling like he can barely hold on to the bed. Dean could probably fuck him like this for hours with the stamina he's got. 

Ripples of pleasure spiraling out through him, Dean holding him, riding him at a slow, rough gallop, sweat slicking the places where their skin touches, and he doesn’t give a fuck about coming, but he feels like he might anyway, the way Dean’s hands feel spread across his back, the way he’s working his cock inside Jax, drawing out every gasp and shudder. Thumbs dragging lower, digging into the swell of Jax’s ass.

“Look… so fucking good,” Dean rasps out. “Spread out like this…” cock slamming into Jax, “just taking it.” 

Dean’s hands skid up the sweat-slick surface of his back, weight bearing down on him, body rippling as Dean fucks him a little harder, one hand gripping his shoulder, other sliding down and around Jax’s stomach, snaking between the mattress and Jax’s skin, heat of his fingers closing around the curve of Jax’s cock.

Jax bites down into the pillow, groaning out a curse, orgasm rushing him quick and hard, sharp and brilliant as diamonds, cock spurting out ragged bursts that slick Dean’s palm, body contracting so hard that Dean grunts, tipping over the edge right after him, driving into him with jerking thrusts, riding it out until they’re both spent, shivering against the bed, Dean’s weight almost slack against him.

Jax takes a few minutes to catch his breath, heart still beating too fast when he finally moves, rolling over on to his side, hand cupped against Dean’s hip, taking Dean with him. 

Dean slides out of him, but Jax keeps his hand on Dean’s hip and Dean stays pressed up against Jax, one arm slung across him. 

Jax rolls over inside the arc of Dean’s arm, shifting on the bed to face him and wriggling backward a little to see him better. Dean looks uncomfortable with the sudden change in position, like he’s thinking about getting up, and Jax throws his forearm across Dean’s waist, wishing Dean would just settle for once.

“You worried they’re gonna find out?” Jax asks. 

Dean doesn’t have to ask who he means, clueing right in to the conversation they were having before Dean fucked him half-useless. Jax can tell, because Dean seems to stop breathing for a moment, expression surprised, faintly confused. “You’re not?”

“This isn’t club business.”

Dean looks at him, scrutinizing, like he isn’t sure if he believes Jax or not. “So you fucking another guy, that’s not gonna bother them?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But it’s my business. Not theirs.” Off Dean’s look, he shrugs again. “I’m not throwing it in their faces, but they’re gonna figure it out eventually.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll work it out.”

Dean just looks at him for an instant longer, and then he moves backward, out from under Jax’s arm, pushing up off the bed. “Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet. “Well. Not trying to be at the center of _that_ afterschool special.”

Jax can’t help the laugh that escapes him. Dean’s turned away from him, searching the floor for his clothes, and Jax rolls over onto his back, carries the motion through until he’s rising up from the bed on the other side. “Fine. I’ve got shit to do today anyway.”

He can feel the weight in Dean’s pause. “What kind of shit?”

Jax bends down and scoops up his boxers, pulling them up his legs. “Club business.”

“Yeah, I figured that part.” The tone of Dean’s voice says he still wants an answer to the original question.

It’s not any of Dean’s business. But Dean’s been up front with him about everything so far, and considering everything they’ve been through, plus the highly fucking illegal arsenal in the trunk of Dean’s car, not to mention the way Dean just fucked him into next week, he’s pretty sure Dean’s not going to judge him. 

He debates a few seconds longer before he turns around to face Dean.

“It’s a gun run.”

Dean’s half dressed, and Jax watches him weigh the words carefully.

“Gun run?” The look in Dean’s eyes is more curious and speculative than anything else.

“It’s what we do.”

“That’s how the club makes its money?”

“One of the biggest gun suppliers in the area,” he says, and he’s not bragging, just stating a fact. “I wanted us to get out, go legal, after Clay. But we’ve got connections that need closing. And if you’re a main supplier and you try to step down…” he lets the sentence trail off.

“It starts a war for who takes over next,” Dean finishes for him.

“Yeah.” He loves the way Dean gets it. That he doesn’t have to explain every single thing to him. Given the amount of time they’ve spent together, they shouldn’t be much more than strangers, but he feels like he’s known Dean a lot longer. 

Jax can see the debate in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t see a hint of doubt or judgment.

“I’ll ride with you,” Dean says. “Club business doesn’t mean demons won’t show up. Besides,” Dean shrugs, “the extra gun can’t hurt, in case something else goes wrong.”

Jax can’t really argue with that.

He wouldn’t, anyway. The extra gun _can’t_ hurt, and if demons show up, they’ll need it. But even if nothing goes wrong, he’ll feel better, having Dean there.

 

\-----

 

A few hours later, Dean’s crammed in the back of the van with Opie, Tig, Juice and Happy, all of them huddled down around the pile of cases stacked in the center. Everyone’s silent, faces tense, and calling the situation uncomfortable would be putting it lightly, as far as Dean’s concerned. 

“You expecting trouble on this run?” Dean asks, leaning over toward Tig.

“It’s the Mayans,” Tig says, like that should explain everything. When he sees Dean has no idea what that means, he goes on. “The _Mayans_ ,” he says again, like maybe Dean will get a clue if he just repeats himself. Dean thinks maybe he should’ve asked Jax a few more questions before they left.

“They’re another motorcycle gang.” Dean knows that much at least.

“Okay,” Tig says. “The Mayans are our rivals. Our biggest rivals. Deals like this…” he tilts his head and lifts a shoulder toward it, “sometimes things go smooth, sometimes everything goes to shit.”

“So you guys are enemies most of the time?”

Tig nods. “They need what we’re bringing ‘em today, though. Long as Alvarez doesn’t get greedy and nobody crashes the party, it should be good.”

Dean tilts his head to one side, then the other. He can handle that. Hell, he can handle anything that’s just good, old fashioned human beings having a dispute, even if it does end in gunfire. The van hits a bump in the road, floor bouncing underneath their feet, jarring all of them momentarily.

“You here on demon duty?” Tig asks when things settle.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, vaguely surprised that Tig doesn’t know that already—or maybe he does and he’s just making conversation. 

“I don’t get it,” Tig lowers his voice to a hushed whisper, leaning closer to Dean inside the tight space of the van. “Charming’s small time. I mean, there’s Sam Crow, and this,” he spreads a hand in the direction of the cases, “but why the hell would _demons_ care about that? It ain’t fuckin’ right.” Tig shakes his head. “What are they doin’ here, man? What do they want?”

For a split second, Dean almost wishes he could tell Tig the truth. He’s spent a lifetime perfecting how to lie to people; he knows it’s necessary sometimes. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.

“Nothing good,” Dean says after a moment. 

And that much, at least, is the truth.

 

*

 

A little while later, they turn down a narrow alleyway, and Dean feels the tension finally start to sink in. If he had to pick, a narrow alleyway wouldn’t be the kind of place he’d do this. Although, he guesses there’s not really that many options. He knows Chibs is on lookout at the other end of the alley in another van, keeping it clear for their exit.

He breathes a tiny bit easier when the door to the van opens just after it grinds to a halt against the dirt. There’s a square lot opening up behind some kind of business, loading dock sealed shut, concrete stairwell leading up and inside, wooden crates and palettes scattered around the area.

All the Sons exit through the open side of the van, Jax climbing out of the passenger seat and shutting the door behind him.

Sack is still in the driver’s seat, waiting to take off in case anything happens, and that makes Dean feel just the slightest bit better about the whole situation. He waits, hanging behind in the van, one eye peering around the edge of the open door. 

There’s obviously no love lost between Jax and the guy who wears the “President” patch for the Mayans as Jax swaggers up to him, the rest of the Sons spread out at his back. The leader of the Mayans—Alvarez, if Dean’s not mistaken about what Tig said—has a similar formation of his own people right behind him, and everyone’s body language is tense, ready for a fight, despite that all they’re doing is talking. 

Alvarez wants to see the merchandise first, predictably, and Opie pulls the case forward across the dirt, flipping the lid open. Alvarez nods, and then jerks his head back at one of his guys. Dean’s fingers flex, watching carefully as the guy Alvarez nodded at moves to the front, opening up a case filled with stacks of bills.

In the distance, there’s the sound of a car approaching, engine rumbling low. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed it, if he weren’t paying attention to the tiniest detail. There’s the sound of a second engine behind the first, running a different rhythm, almost too quiet to catch.

Dean watches as Happy and Juice walk back to the van to get the rest of the cases, glancing at the two of them before he lets his eyes slide back across the tense group, moving across the interior of the van to the back window, checking the mouth of the alley behind them.

He can hear the way Happy and Juice hesitate in the middle of their movements as they register the sound, see the dust spinning up at the end of the alleyway. The nose of the car cuts hard toward the alley, ass end slinging out and fishtailing in the instant before he tears his eyes away.

“We’ve got company,” he yells, hoping like hell everyone can hear him.

Juice and Happy let go of the cases, leaping inside the van as Dean pushes off the floor, launches himself diagonally through the open doorway, left shoulder hitting ground first, body sliding sideways across the grit and dirt, hip grating against rock before he kicks his feet and moves his shoulders.

The alleyway explodes with the sound of machine gunfire, car tearing ass as it bears down on them. To his left, he can see people running for cover, chips of brick alley wall and wooden crates flying everywhere. 

Dean straightens out, feet pointing diagonally to the van as he rolls onto his back, weight settling against his left shoulder, bracing as he lifts his .45, car straight ahead in his sight. It’s a classic, metal grill gleaming, and shooting out the radiator won’t do him any good in the amount of time he’s got. He aims lower, targeting the driver’s side tire—and fires. 

The car flies out of control, trying to spin sideways inside the narrow span of the alley, ass end crashing into one wall, front end crashing into the other, impact so hard and quick that it throws the car back the other way, sparks screeching from metal as it collides again. 

The automatic gunfire has fallen silent, and he can hear the sound of the second car crashing into the first, shoving it sideways even harder down the mouth of the alley.

Dean rolls onto his belly, turning, bullets streaking back and forth above his body, fired by the Mayans crouched behind cover on the other side of the lot and the Sons inside the van. Opie’s behind a stack of crates, the original case of guns up in front of him, bulky form barely fitting behind it as he fires over the top. Tig is crouched low against the cement stairwell leading to the side of whatever building this is, firing off shots. Jax—where the fuck is Jax?

Behind him, Sack throws the van into gear, yanking the wheel hard, van cutting at angle behind him so tight that he’s distantly aware that he’s goddamned lucky he didn’t get driven over. A moment later, the squealing screech of metal flies past, cars spinning out before they crash into the alleyway mouth on the far side of the lot, lodging there. 

He doesn’t give a shit about any of that. He’s got two guns in his hands now, and one rule—anything that doesn’t go down on the first shot from his .45 gets a second shot from the Colt. 

He takes aim, squinting with one eye down the barrel of his .45 as he pumps out a shot, Mayan falling back behind a stack of crates. He aims at the next Mayan he can see the edge of, barely catching the man with his bullet, but it’s enough. Between him and the rest of the Sons, they’ve got the Mayans on the defensive, enough that Tig creeps back down the stairs and runs across the open distance, pushing up alongside Opie, words exchanged quickly between them while reloading.

Dean lays down cover fire until he’s out, hopes it’s long enough for them to reload.

It’s not.

Shit.

Shots explode from where the concrete pulls away from the loading dock into a sharp wall, drawing the Mayans’ fire. 

Jax.

Tig gets up on his knees, starts shooting over the edge of the case and crates, and Dean rolls over and over, working his way to where Jax is out of bullets.

He comes up on his right side, reaching for the clip in his pocket—

There’s a Mayan standing at the edge of the slope, gun aimed straight down at Jax, who’s got nothing left.

No. Goddammit, _no_. Not Jax. Please, not Jax.

A shot splits the air, and Dean flinches at the end of loading.

The Mayan is lying on the ground, bleeding from the chest, and Dean cranes his neck, sees Opie on one knee, gun still smoking.

Jesus Christ. Jesus _Christ_. Thank fuck. 

A silhouette emerges from behind the end of the van behind Opie and Tig, staggering a step forward into light, face battered and bloody from the car accident, gun held between both his hands.

Dean rolls over onto his left shoulder, barely aiming before he fires.

The man goes down hard, ragged black circle through his forehead.

“Go. Let’s go.” The hand tugging at him is Jax’s, fire laid down as he yanks Dean with him, Opie and Tig pulling out behind them.

Dean catches a glimpse of the two wrecked cars clogging the mouth of the alley on the far side of the lot, but the half of the alley they entered through is still open.

They hit the open van at a dead run, falling inside, door open just long enough for Tig and Opie to fall in behind them—and then Sack is yanking into reverse, spinning the van around almost before Jax can even get the door shut. Weight falling against Dean, ass end of the van skidding for a moment and then they’re gone the same way they came in, sharp spark of bullets left behind.

“You hit?” Dean asks.

“No,” Jax says, half sprawled across him. “You?”

“Fine,” Dean nods, fighting back the urge to check Jax and make sure he’s okay.

There’s a wordless moment between them, just looking at each other, and then the tires screech as the van slides onto the main road, back end whipping to the right before Sack corrects and straightens it out.

“Fucking gun running,” Jax mutters the words like a curse as he pushes himself up. 

Jax does his thing, talking to the rest of the club about how they’ll take time to regroup and decide how to deal with Mayans while Dean waits for his heartbeat to slow, his stomach to settle.

 

\-----

 

They make it to the warehouse without further incident, but Jax feels anything but easy. Everything about this is off, wrong. He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened back there or why, and that’s the worst of all. When shit goes bad between clubs, there’s usually some kind of power struggle going on, one club trying to get a leg up on another. Usually, he has an idea of what the Mayans are trying to get when they turn, but this time…

Fucking gun running. 

“We need to get clear of this shit,” Jax hisses at Opie, tugging a case of guns to the edge of the open door of the van. “Nothing but trouble.”

“And what? Let the Mayans take over?” Opie asks.

Jax stops, leaning forward across the plastic case he’d been pulling free, dead serious as he looks at Opie. It’s a rhetorical question, and they both know it, just like they both know there isn’t any good way out of this. But he answers, anyway.

“No,” Jax shakes his head.

Opie eyes him for a moment longer, and then hauls a case free of the van, setting it against the ground. “Then what?”

Jax presses his lips together in a flat line, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t know, man,” he sighs after a minute. “But we need to figure it out. After we deal with this demon shit.”

Opie stands there, hands at his sides, about to say something else before he notices someone approaching them from behind. Jax half turns his head and sees Dean walking up. Good an excuse as any to put this conversation on hold. It’s not like he’s got time to worry about it right now, anyway. He grabs the case then, and pulls it free from the van, turning to walk it inside the warehouse.

 

\-----

 

Dean can’t quite look at Jax as they pass on his way to the van. He still hasn’t processed everything that happened back there, just knows it left him gripping the last case of guns with white knuckles on the way inside.

Jax’s footsteps recede inside the warehouse, and Dean realizes Opie’s the only one by the open door, hopes another one of the guys is on their way back out close behind him. Opie hefts a case from the ground and hands it off to Dean, and Dean starts to turn away when Opie stops him.

“Thanks for making that last shot,” he says, eyes meeting Dean’s, and for the first time, Dean can see something in them that isn’t laced with suspicion.

Dean clears his throat, uncomfortable. “That’s why I’m here.”

“No,” Opie shakes his head. “It ain’t. You’re here to kill demons, not help out on a run. So, thanks.”

Dean nods, accepting what Opie clearly thinks he’s due. But the words open up something else in him, leave him feeling like he needs to say something else. The words, when they come, are unplanned. 

“Thanks for… making the shot I couldn’t.”

Opie gives him a slow nod. “I’d have done that no matter what.”

Dean swallows, nodding back. “I know. But I thought that one was on me. So, thanks.”

Opie’s expression settles into somber lines and angles, thoughtful.

“If I hadn’t made that shot,” he says, “Sons would’ve lost their president… Gemma would’ve lost her only living son… and I’d have lost my best friend since I was kid.” Opie’s eyes bore into his, trying to see inside places Dean really doesn’t want him to. “What would you have lost?”

Dean isn’t sure if Opie wants an answer or if he’s just making a point, but either way, Dean gets it. Knows he needs to exit this conversation right now.

“Right.” Dean hefts the case against his chest, starting to turn away again.

“He mean more to you than an easy piece of ass?”

The words freeze Dean in place. They implicate so many things—first and foremost that Opie knows exactly what the fuck is going on.

“Never been hard for a good-looking woman to get Jax in bed, or the other way around,” Opie goes on. “But you’re the first… guy I’ve seen him look at like that.”

Shit. Dean can’t believe he thought this conversation might be leading somewhere good in the beginning. He wants to walk away, doesn’t want to do this... But Jax clearly isn’t ashamed of whatever they’re doing, and he isn’t either, much as he didn’t want to get in the middle of this. 

“Does everyone know?”

“ **I** didn’t know for sure, til just now.”

Fuck. “Fuck me,” Dean sighs, shaking his head.

The smirk that curls Opie’s mouth is darkly amused. “Even if I swung that way, I think you’re spoken for.”

The words creep through Dean slowly, sinking in over long milliseconds. 

That’s not… this isn’t… God dammit. “I speak for myself.”

“Tell that to the next person who tries getting in your pants.”

Shit. He is so not ready to deal with any of this. _So_ not ready. It’s not important, anyway, right now. Not as important as other things.

He sets the case down against the ground lengthwise, hands gripping hard plastic, eyes fixed on his knuckles for a moment before he looks up at Opie. “Is this gonna cause trouble for him? With the club?”

Opie’s expression is smoothly masked, stoic as ever, giving away nothing as he looks at Dean. “He’s my best friend. The rest of the club… if they’re seeing it, they’re not saying anything.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Opie considers him for a moment. “I think we both found out what we wanted to know.”

The neutral tone of Opie’s voice, the glint in his eyes… They all fucking know. Jesus fucking Christ. They all know and none of them are saying a word and maybe none of them are going to but they _know_.

He is _so_ part of that afterschool special.

There are footsteps coming up behind him, and whichever Son it might happen to be, Dean isn’t prepared to face them.

“Awesome,” Dean hisses, curling his lower lip between his teeth and biting down hard, half-bending and hefting the case from the ground before he spins around and stalks inside the warehouse.

 

*

 

It’s not that they know that bothers him so much.

No. It’s that. It’s exactly that.

Not because they think he’s gay. He doesn’t care about that, and they… seem to… deal with it, anyway. It’s…

He didn’t come here to start anything except killing evil motherfuckers. How he ended up alongside a gang of outlaw bikers who seem to think…

_\-- Even if I swung that way, I think you’re spoken for--_

How _this_ is his life right now, he has no fucking idea.

Jax cuts him a glance across the van, and Dean pretends not to see it.

His fingers climb to the leather cord around his neck, catching around the charm, turning it this way and that, feel of the road humming up through the van and into his bones, rhythm familiar and old as time.

He’s got demons to kill. He’s got a mission.

It’s not that they care. It’s that they know, and that makes it more real, somehow.

It’s the moment he spent less than an hour ago, body stretched out across unforgiving asphalt, heart a panicked, fluttering bird behind his ribs, thundering in his ears, hands just a split second too slow to load the gun. 

He grinds his teeth together, pushing the thought away, burying it deep and hard. 

 

*

 

Dean feels tired when they get back to the club house, worn thin in a way that has nothing to do with the amount of sleep he got last night, and the day isn’t anywhere close to over.

Jax motions him toward one of the back rooms of the club as soon as they get inside, clapping a few of his brothers on the shoulder along the way. Their eyes catch Jax’s, sliding off Dean as he passes behind, and he guesses that’s better than being stared at. He’ll take it, considering.

The room Jax leads them to is tiny, a serviceable office that looks like it hasn’t been used in years, and Jax paces across the confines of it, turning as he reaches the far edge, behind one of the chairs set in front of the desk. Dean draws up short of the chair beside the other, and neither one of them sit.

“You got any insight into what happened back there?” Jax asks.

Hell, he’d figured Jax would have more insight into what happened than he would. “Club business, right? Tig said these deals go bad sometimes.”

“No.” Jax shakes his head, agitated. “They needed this deal. Something’s not right. They got no reason for trying to take us out. Not unless they’re getting something else out of it. Thing is, there’s nothing else on the table I know about.”

Jax isn’t used to not knowing what the other club’s angle is, that much is obvious. And if that’s true, Dean can think of one thing that would fit.

“Demons,” he says. 

Jax shakes his head. “No. They weren’t--”

“That’s the point,” Dean cuts in, still thinking it through even as certainty works its way through him. “The demon inside you told me the club was a threat. They want you out of the way. But they know I can kill ‘em, and they know I’m with you. The Mayans, they’re your rivals already. They’re human, expendable without demons inside them. Give them the right motivation,” Dean tilts his head, half-shrugging, “and they make perfect pawns.”

“You mean blackmail.”

Dean nods. “And the demons take no losses.”

“Fuck,” Jax growls, shaking his head. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dean confides.

“We already got demons on our asses. The Mayans, too?” Jax grips the back of the chair and leans over it, frowning thoughtfully.

“Yeah. It’s a good plan,” Dean says.

Jax snorts and nods, grim.

“The thing I can’t figure out is how they got so good at planning all the sudden,” Dean goes on. “Demons are arrogant, impatient fuckers by nature. Maybe a handful with a long term plan.”

“Fuck the demons,” Jax says, pushing off the chair. “The Mayans are Sam Crow’s business. We’ll handle them.”

Dean would point out that the Mayans are clearly the demons’ business, too, but he knows how well that would go over. 

“You got a plan?” he asks, instead.

Jax rolls his lower lip between his teeth and slowly lets it unfurl, eyes still intensely thoughtful. “Working on it.” 

Jax surveys him a moment more, tongue running across his lower lip as he considers something, and it’s distracting as all hell in a way that’s completely at odds with how Dean’s feeling right now. And Dean can tell by the look on Jax’s face that whatever he’s about to say next isn’t going to make him feel any better.

“We know about the Mayans, the demons. What’s our worry with the vessel? I thought you said Lucifer was gone.”

The image of Sam tumbling down into the earth pushes in at the edges of his mind and he pushes back hard. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but when has that stopped him since he started this case?

“For now,” Dean tells him. “But if there’s another vessel, they’ll try to get him out.”

“They can get him out?”

“There’s always a way.” Dean feels anciently tired as the words leave him.

“Then what?”

“Lucifer gets inside the right skin, he ends the world. Game over.”

He can see a couple of pieces click into place behind Jax’s eyes. “These demons… they want that?”

It’s such an honest question, such a sane one. 

Dean wishes he had sane answers. But all he’s got are honest ones.

“Lucifer turned on God because God loved humans more than angels. God kicked his ass out of heaven for it. There’s nothing he hates more than us, and God’s right behind us.”

Jax runs a thumb beneath the swell of his lower lip, gaze growing even more intense as Dean keeps speaking.

“He wants us all dead. Wants God to see it, and then kill God, too, if he can.”

“You’re fucking shitting me.” It’s not really a question, and Dean doesn’t answer. They’re not as deep in this as he’s afraid they’re going to be, but shying away from it isn’t going to do either one of them a bit of good. Jax can handle it; that much, Dean’s sure of.

“These demons… they worship him.” Dean watches as the words sink in. “There’s nothing they wouldn’t do.”

Silence hangs between them, thick as fog, Jax’s eyes never leaving Dean’s as he thinks that through. “The tattoo? Your gun?”

Dean shakes his head, quick and tight. “No good against Lucifer. That’s why we had to… lock him in the pit in the first place.”

Jax leans forward, grabbing hold of the back of the chair again, shoulders hunching over his chest, slowly shaking his head. “Shit.”

“Pretty much,” Dean agrees, running a hand across his chin.

Jax looks at him with those steady blue eyes, head still turning slowly back and forth. “This is way above my pay grade.”

Dean jerks his chin, looking away, muscle in his jaw coiling into a knot as he coughs up a bitter sound. “Yeah. Not mine.” 

“You get benefits with that?” Jax asks, voice layered with dark humor and sarcasm.

Dean’s laugh is ragged, escaping him without his consent. “Still breathing count as a benefit?”

“Most days.”

Dean pauses, thinking for a moment. He needs to tell Jax everything. “You should know. If things go down like I think they’re going to, there’ll be other hunters showing up.”

“Hunters?”

“People who do what I do.”

He can see Jax turn that over, the idea that there are more crazy motherfuckers like Dean out there in the world.

“This is a bad thing,” Jax doesn’t quite ask, taking in Dean’s expression.

“They’ll kill anyone that might seem like Lucifer’s next vessel. And anything or anyone that gets in their way.”

“Think they can take you?” 

It’s meant to be a joke, but Dean can’t find it in him to laugh. Dean bites down against his lower lip, glancing away as he shakes his head. “They already did, once. Me and Sam both. The symbols, the salt. None of it works on them. They’re human, more crazy and dangerous than anything else.”

“Humans, I know about,” Jax nods in all seriousness. “But we don’t know if there is a vessel.”

“One thing you learn in my business? If it’s the worst thing that could happen? It usually does.”

“You made it through all right so far.”

“Really didn’t,” Dean mutters.

Jax crosses the room, hand settling on Dean’s shoulder, waiting until Dean looks at him.

“If it comes, we’ll handle it.” Jax delivers the words with a complete certainty Dean wishes he still had.

And who the fuck is this guy? With his hand on Dean’s shoulder, backing him up at every turn, listening to his crazy ass monster stories and dead brother sightings without batting an eye? Dean’s wrecked—he might be good at denial, but even _he’s_ not that good—he knows how fucked up he is. And Jax just… doesn’t care. Standing here saying the exact same thing Dean had said to Sam on more occasions than he can count. The same thing Sam had said to him whenever Dean couldn’t carry the weight anymore.

“Even if it does,” Jax says, “we don’t have to worry about the hunters. We agreed to killing whoever it turns out to be.”

“Unless it’s someone you care about.”

“Not likely.”

Yeah. Dean remembers that kind of confidence. It seems so long ago and far away now.

“You almost didn’t make it through today.” Dean means the words to come out more sarcastic than they do.

“Yeah. A couple of us almost didn’t,” Jax says, looking at Dean meaningfully, and Dean understands Opie and Tig aren’t the only ones who saw his shot. “That’s the risk. One of the reasons I want Sam Crow to go legal. But it ain’t gonna happen today.”

And even if it did, it’s not the kind of life you just walk away from. Dean gets it. In another place, another time…

“You’d make one hell of a hunter.” There’s an edge of pride and wistfulness to his voice that Dean hates, but he can’t stop it.

There’s a long silence before Jax finally answers. “I’m a Son.”

“I know.” Dean nods, pressing his lips between his teeth as he looks down.

Jax’s hands close around Dean’s face, thumbs hooking underneath his chin, tilting him up to look.

“You know you’d make one hell of a Son.”

Dean nods again, smiling bitterly. “I’m a hunter.”

“Yeah. I know.” 

They understand each other. They both know where they stand. And Dean isn’t sure where and how the hell that happened, but he knows he could take this for whatever it is.

Fuck. 

Dean closes his eyes, lifts his arms, fingers wrapping around Jax’s wrists, and tugs Jax’s hands from his face before he lets go. “I need a shower.”

“I like you dirty,” Jax rumbles, pushing closer against him.

He shouldn’t do this… But he wants to. Fuck, he _wants_ to.

He can’t remember the last time he ever really wanted anything besides his brother, alive and breathing next to him.

He needs to leave. He really does.

Fingers edging along his jaw, insistent, thumbs pressing into the hollow space under his chin and he opens his eyes.

“You almost died.”

Jax leans into his space, looking at him, eyes glinting playfully. “Still alive. You need to take me for a test drive? Make sure?”

He’s standing there, grinning that maddening, inviting grin, alive and open and ready for anything, and Dean shouldn’t—fuck, he really _shouldn’t_ , this has already gone way too far—but Jax is looking at him, that teasing lilt to his eyebrows, and Dean can’t seem to stop himself, hands closing around Jax’s shoulders, pushing him back until they hit the far wall.

“Aw... don’t tell me you cared,” Jax says, more teasing in the depths of his eyes than Dean can take, his mouth still curved in that wicked smirk, like he knows everything.

“Fuck you,” he grates, mouth colliding into Jax’s, and those hands slide up through his hair, around the back of his head, pulling him in closer, deeper. “I hate you,” he breathes, lips speaking whispered words against Jax’s.

“No…” Jax whispers back, his tongue flashing across Dean’s lower lip, mouth quirking against his. “You don’t.”

No. He doesn’t. And that’s really the problem, isn’t it? 

_\--You like him--_

Jax is warm and welcoming, grinding into him, and he doesn’t have time to give the thought the consideration it probably needs, too caught up in the wicked way Jax’s tongue works around his, the feel of him shoving into Dean’s hands, breathing and _wanting_.

Dean grabs Jax tight, pushing his shoulders to the wall, hands sliding down to find the groove of his hips. Jax has other plans, though, hands ripping at Dean’s shirt, tearing it over his head, and Dean can’t help but return the favor, yanking away Jax’s cut, both of them pulling up the hem of his shirt until it comes free, tossed aside and forgotten. Bare skin of Jax’s chest against his, mouth eager and devouring him, and he’s so hot Dean can barely think –

The door to the room opens, and Dean moves without thought, spinning, the Colt pressed against his palm.

Gemma is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, and Dean’s got nothing.

Her eyes fall on the tattoo on Dean’s chest and then move to find the same one on Jax’s, and stop dead. 

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes.

For a split second, Dean thinks she recognizes it, but then her eyes climb to find Jax’s face. 

“Matching tattoos? Jesus Christ, Jackson. What the hell were you thinking? What were _you_ thinking?” she demands, looking Dean dead in the eye.

Shit. Because it wouldn’t be a real afterschool special without this.

Jax is already moving, crossing the room with an exaggerated, angry swagger. “Jesus, mom. You mind?” he demands, hand grasping the edge of the door.

Gemma slams her arm out across the wooden door, staring at Jax with concentrated ferocity. “We need to talk. Now.”

Jax is ready to close the door on her anyway; Dean can read it in every tense flex and coil of his muscles. And whatever Dean’s doing here… it’s not about tearing family apart.

“Don’t,” Dean says, leaning to scoop his shirt from the floor. “You two… talk,” he says, flapping his shirt in their general direction before he pulls it on, and there is no part of this that isn’t awkward, Jesus fucking Christ.

Jax cuts his eyes at Dean, and then back at his mother, and then motions her out through the doorway. Gemma retreats and Jax pulls the door behind them, slamming it shut.

Great. He’s stuck here.

 

\-----

 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Gemma demands, rounding on Jax when they’re in the hallway. “Matching tattoos? What are you, sixteen?”

He’s trying not to lose his temper, he’s really trying. “It’s club business. We all have them.”

For just an instant he can see a flash of something in her eyes, there and gone as she lets that pass. “But you’re fucking him.”

“Where I stick my dick is my own goddamned business.”

“Baby.” Her tone softens then, just a touch. “You know I love you no matter what. But you know this ain’t smart. If people find out… if Sam Crow’s enemies find out…”

“What?” He asks, raising his brows. He knows what she means—knows _exactly_ what she means—but he wants to hear her say it. 

“It might give them a reason to come after you.”

“Then let ‘em come,” he says without hesitation, anger spreading out in a warm glow through his chest. “They wanna come gay bashing in Charming, Sam Crow’ll beat ‘em back like always.”

“Jax.” She shakes her head like he can’t possibly understand what he’s saying. “You don’t need that kind of trouble. You barely _know_ this guy.”

“That’s my decision.”

“You wanna risk everything on a guy you just met? Why the hell would you do that?”

He’s got too many emotions running through him right now—anger and resentment at his mother for questioning and second-guessing him, the bright, sharp almost overwhelming urge to defend Dean against her accusations, the knowledge that he doesn’t have much ground to stand on except what he senses, _feels_ in Dean and how that’s even more important than the facts that do stand out in Dean’s favor. 

He cares about Dean, more than he probably should. He knows that. He just doesn’t give a shit.

“It’s my choice, mom. Stay out of it,” he tells her, and then puts his back to her, walking away.

*

Jax turns the door handle, leaving his mother behind as he enters the room, finding Dean fully clothed, ass leaning back against the desk, arms folded across his chest.

“You heard all that?” Jax asks, jerking his head in the direction of the hallway. It’s not really a question, no way Dean couldn’t have heard, close as they were to the door.

Dean pushes off the desk without answering. “I should go.”

“I told you, don’t let her bother you.” Jax steps closer, meeting Dean on his way to the door.

“Kind of a mood killer,” Dean replies.

Jax can’t disagree with that, but… “Still doesn’t make her right.”

“She’s your mom.”

She loves him, she worries—he knows. He just wishes she were less psychotic about it. “See how you feel after she comes at you a couple times.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Maybe. But you could kill those things.” 

The words earn the hint of a smile out of Dean, and Jax is sure Dean isn’t taking him seriously enough, however much he’d been trying to get a smile out of him.

“How much trouble is this gonna cause trouble between you two?” 

“Don’t worry about that.”

And despite that he’s known Dean for less than a week, he can tell by the lack of expression on Dean’s face that he’s worrying about _something_.

Opie calls his name from the end of the hallway, voice carrying through cracked open door.

“We’ll finish this later,” Jax tells him.

Dean nods, and Jax has it in him to say more, but Opie calls for him again, and shit, it’s gonna be one of those kind of days.

Jax tugs his shirt back on hurriedly. “Later,” he adds, pointing meaningfully at Dean.

Just the faintest smile crosses Dean’s lips as Jax turns away, shrugging into his cut as he heads down the hall.

 

\-----

 

 

Jax and the Sons are at ‘church’—which Dean has come to understand is their term for ‘club meeting’. He’s come to understand a lot of things in the past… four days? Five? Fuck, he can’t even remember anymore. It feels like a hell of a lot longer, regardless.

He sits on the edge of the bed in his room, outer edges of his hands touching, forming a gentle vee shape across his face.

_\--“ You wanna risk everything on a guy you just met? Why the hell would you do that?”--_

It’s a damned good question. One he wishes Jax would have answered. But he’s pretty sure he knows why. He’s pretty sure it’s the same reason he’s sitting here like this, slowly unraveling.

He’s fucking this up. Fucking this whole thing up so hard he can barely wrap his head around it. Jax, the club, Gemma. He came here to kill demons, maybe go out in a blaze of glory if he gets really fucking unlucky, not get _involved_.

His head’s spinning like a dryer; thoughts like heavy shoes, clunking against metal again and again. His head’s as much a mess as everything else, and that’s probably part of the problem, but there’s one thing that keeps rising up to haunt him.

He’d failed. Failed, again.

_“Failed at what again, Dean?” Sam’s voice is a gentle whisper in his ear as he closes his eyes._

To stop… to save…

He’d had a moment where he’d thought Jax was dead, and what that evoked in him…

He hadn’t thought he’d had that left in him anymore.

The knock on the door is a sharp rap that shatters the moment, eyes snapping open as he flies to his feet, Colt in his hand as he walks toward the door. He’s sure the Sons aren’t done with church, and he can’t think of a single other person who’d be knocking on his door.

He opens the door a crack, and then stops.

Well, Gemma might knock on his door, there is that. 

This is all his day needs.

He steps back and opens the door, waiting until after she’s stepped inside, over the devil’s trap painted beneath the rug in front of it before he resettles the Colt in the back of his jeans. Gemma gives him a look he can’t decipher as she watches him do it, and then she steps right up to him, eye level with him in her high heels, arms, folded across her chest.

“What do you want from him?” she demands, no preamble, no bullshit, and despite the fact that her blazing, unforgiving scrutiny is focused on him, Dean can’t help but admire her. Fierce and determined, willing to face him down—a dangerous, unstable stranger who just tucked a gun in the back of his pants—to protect her son.

“I don’t want anything from him,” Dean says. 

“Don’t bullshit me,” she hisses, eyes narrowing on him. “Even if all you want is to fuck him, that’s something.”

“And that’s a problem,” Dean nods.

“You’ve got no idea how this could fuck things up for him. He’s only been president of the club for a few months. He doesn’t need any goddamned distractions right now. Especially not this kind,” she tells him, pushing her face way too far into his space.

“And definitely not the gay kind,” Dean adds for her, watches as she inches back a bit, looking vaguely troubled.

“That’s part of it,” she nods, standing behind her conviction. 

He could say something smart-assed, deflect and avoid, he’s good at that. But… there’s some part of him that gets this. A part of him that needs her to understand this isn’t about fucking Jax or screwing things up. If she were one of the Sons, if she were any guy at all, he’d tell her to go fuck herself and mind her own business, but she’s Jax’s mom.

“I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you.” Dean hunches his shoulders, uncomfortable. “There’s a lot I don’t understand about what’s going on here. But I know what happened to his dad, his brother, his stepdad.”

“You don’t know shit,” Gemma tells him, unequivocally. 

Dean nods, taking the words on the chin, accepting them as due. “Maybe not the specifics. But I know about family. I know about losing them.” Dean takes a deep breath, and maybe, just maybe, he can at least make this right. 

“When I was five,” he begins, stumbling over the words. “When I was five, my… mother was murdered. My… brother was six months old. Dad took us on the road about a year later, all across the country, chasing after the person who did it.”

Gemma’s eyes are fixed on Dean’s, pupils huge, thin rim of brown clinging at the edges, surprise and the faintest hint of sadness mingling together in their depths.

Dean wills himself to find the words, thinks maybe if he can just keep pushing them out fast enough they won’t hurt so much.

“Hotels, motels, squatting, rented houses, we never stayed anywhere more than a couple months. My dad… he was never there. It was just me and Sam. I was the oldest. Sam was my responsibility. I took care of him. All my life ‘til the day he died, that was my job.”

“My dad died, too… but Sam… he was all I ever had.” The words don’t come without pain, chest tightening until he can barely breathe. “When he died…” His throat works silently for a long moment. 

“Jesus,” Gemma whispers off whatever she sees in his face.

“So I get it.” Dean swallows against the aching squeeze of muscles in his throat. “Jax is all you’ve got left. I’d protect him with everything I had, too.”

Gemma’s calculating look is gone, but there are still warnings and questions in her eyes.

“I swear to you,” Dean tells her. “I’m not here to distract him, or hurt him. I’m here to help protect him.”

There’s a long pause as Gemma stops, glancing downward, shaking her head, hands falling to her hips as she pushes out a long, slow breath. She nods, as if to herself, weight settling back on one foot, other foot turning one high heel back and forth across the wooden floor before she looks at him again. “For how long?”

The question catches him off guard. It’s not something he’s given a lot of thought to—being a hunter doesn’t lend itself to thinking about the future a whole lot. You do the job, you get it done, you maybe celebrate for a night, and then you pull up stakes and head back out on the road. That’s the way it’s done. It’s never even been a question.

He’s surprised to find how much the thought of leaving Charming bothers him. Fuck. He’s way more involved than he even thought.

“Until the job’s done,” he says, because what other answer is there? “And then I’ll go on my way.”

“And what if he doesn’t want you to go?”

The question stops Dean cold. 

“I don’t know why you’re here, Dean, but I know you’re trouble. And I know my son. He’s got too much of his father in him for me not to. The longer you do this, the harder you’re going to make it when you leave. And you _are_ going to leave. It’s in your blood. Known plenty like you in my time. Always on the move.” She shakes her head, long locks shivering around her face. “Don’t fuck with his head because he’s an easy lay.”

Dean’s speechless, ramifications just starting to sink when his mouth moves, speaking words that haven’t passed through the filter of his brain yet. “I’m not. That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?” Gemma asks, leaning away from him to look at him better. 

He’s… they’re just… but, no… they’re not ‘just’, are they? Out in the field of poppies, last night, this morning in bed… earlier today, that moment of helplessness, fear and adrenaline screaming through every nerve, telling him he’d failed _again_. They’re not ‘just’ anything, and the realization just keeps getting clearer and clearer.

“Cut him loose, Dean,” Gemma tells him, not entirely without sympathy. “You can’t do him any good.”

Hell, it’s not like he ever thought he could. But the words hurt anyway, slicing jagged to the bone, and he didn’t think he still had this in him.

“It’s the best thing for both of you,” Gemma says, fingers touching his shoulder, giving him one last look before she turns.

He watches her walk away from him, the sway of her hips, the perfect alignment of her shoulders, Jax’s words echoing in his mind.

_See if you feel that way after she comes at you a couple of times._

Dean should’ve asked if that was because she’d be right.

 

*

 

He stays inside his room, even though he doesn’t want to. His hands itch for the wheel of the Impala, the feel of the road beneath him--for familiarity, for anything except this endless waiting around with nothing besides his own brain and his flask for company. But he has to stay here for now. Jax and the Sons are downstairs, and his job isn’t done. He can’t just leave them to be slaughtered. Can’t leave Charming to be slaughtered.

But it’s more than that, and he knows it now. Wishes he didn’t.

Wishes he didn’t, because… 

He bites down against the inside of his cheek, pushing to his feet and walking to the bathroom door, palm of his hand striking the wood. His forehead follows after, resting against the edge of the trim. He can feel the amulet against his chest, solid weight reminding him of everything he doesn’t have.

_\--“Keep it to remember me,” Sam pleads, voice a ragged whisper. Huge hand, so familiar, cupping his face._

_Dull aqua expanse of motel wallpaper behind his brother, ducks flying into the air from watery rushes, and Dean knows he’s always going to remember it—remember this moment, the way Sam looks right now._

_The edges of the charm blur in his vision, then double, edges rippling outward against his palm. Dean closes his fingers around the amulet and swallows hard. His heart is beating too fast inside his chest, breathing slowly in and out, until he can find the will to speak the right words._

_“Okay. Okay, Sammy.”--_

He hasn’t forgotten. He’ll die before he’ll forget. But what he’s been doing here…

It feels like forgetting. It feels like betrayal.

“Sam.” His voice is ragged in the silence, shot through with more longing than he wishes it were.

_“Right here,” Sam whispers, arm closing around Dean’s chest, body pressing up behind. “Always right here.”_

Dean wants open his fingers, grab Sam’s between them, fall back against him, just _feel_ him for a second. The temptation is so strong that it physically hurts, pain shooting from his chest to every nerve ending.

“Don’t leave me,” Dean pleads, voice catching in his throat. He knows every time he answers Sam he gets a little less sane, but he doesn’t care, needs this.

_“Never leaving you, Dean. I’ll always be here,” words breathed out against the back of Dean’s neck, lips ghosting warm against the skin._

Warm… not cold. No frost decorating his brother’s hands, and he can’t remember the last time there was. Sam is warm, and Dean wants to sink into him, lose himself, stay right here, just like this.

_“I’ll always be with you,” Sam whispers. “No matter what you do.”_

Not even if…

_“No matter what,” Sam breathes._

Sensation of Sam fading, slow leaving of arms around him, and then it’s just him, alone again inside the clubhouse bedroom, trying to breathe. 

Slowly, he becomes aware of someone knocking at the door.

He knows who it is. Thinks how he shouldn’t answer, knowing he’s going to.

He shouldn’t even still be here, making these decisions. 

_\--“Promise me, Dean.”--_

 

*

 

“You gonna stay up here all night?” Jax asks when Dean finally opens the door.

“Think I’m gonna go to bed,” Dean answers. “Been a long day.”

Jax frowns, pushing the door open another fraction, eyes glancing inside the room and then meeting Dean’s with a look that clearly asks if Dean’s in some kind of trouble. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” And excepting today’s realizations and visitations by his dead, no-longer-frostbitten brother, it’s the truth.

Okay. It’s not anywhere near the truth, and he doesn’t blame Jax for the look he gives Dean.

“No demon trouble. Club’s all good.”

Jax squints at him, taking that in. “What about you?”

Why does he have to ask? Why the fuck can’t he just let it go, like most people would? Asshole.

“I’m fine.” Dean could push those words out if he was tied down being eaten alive by fire ants. Unfortunately, everything in Jax’s expression says Jax doesn’t believe them any more than Sam ever did.

“Everything’s fine.”

Jax is looking at him intently, blue eyes filled with knowing. “What did she say?”

Dean could try to bullshit Jax, but he has yet to see that work. All that’s going to do is make this take even longer before he says what he knows he needs to say anyway. Besides, he’s too tired, too strung out, and he’s had more than a few drinks out of his flask.

“She was right. Whatever we’re doing, it isn’t… it can’t...” Fuck, he’s never been good at saying this kind of shit. He needs to just get to it, spit it out and move on. “So let’s just pretend it never--”

Dean breaks off as Jax pushes the door open and walks inside the room, door kicked shut behind him.

“Stop listening to my psychotic mother.” Jax is close, mouth a bare inch from Dean’s, hands planted against his shoulders, spinning him around against the door.

Dean takes a breath, biting at the inside of his cheek. “She’s not wrong. All I’m ever gonna bring you is trouble.”

“My life’s about trouble.”

“You want _out_ of trouble.”

“Not this kind of trouble.” Lips hot against his, and it’s more than Dean can hear, more than he can know.

“You don’t want—”

Jax cuts him off, mouth crashing into Dean’s hard enough that their teeth click together. “I want _you_.” Tongue lashing against Dean’s, circling slick and hot, hands gripping his jaw. “As long as you’re here, whatever it means.”

Fuck, those words breathed out into his mouth, and they send his mind spinning. Jax kissing him, body molded against his, pushed against the wall, and all Dean wants is to give in, go with it. 

He puts his hands on Jax’s face, pushing him back just far enough to speak. “I don’t want to fuck things up for you.”

“Things were fucked up _before_ you showed up. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be—we’d all be dead, along with most of the town.”

There’s truth in that. There’s also truth in the fact that Bobby’s the only person Dean’s ever gotten close to that hasn’t ended up dead yet, and he’s pretty sure that’s only because Bobby is just too goddamned stubborn to know when to lay down and die.

Jax pushes into him again, mouth dragging hot against Dean’s. “I’m not asking you to marry me. You shit stupid motherfucker.”

Only Jax could make that sound like an endearment.

Dean doesn’t have a single clue what he’s doing, what he’s supposed to do, and here’s Jax, right in the middle of all his doubt, making him laugh, making everything seem so less dire than it did a few seconds ago.

“You better not be. No flowers, no ring. You’d be fucking this all up.”

“I’d pay for your dress.” Dean can feel the way Jax is grinning.

“Fuck you,” Dean mutters, grabbing him by the back of the head and yanking him in.

 

*

 

After, Jax half-sprawls across him, the same easy way he’d done last night, and Dean’s too fucked out to protest. He lies there in bed, eyelids and mind drifting slowly downward.

It shouldn’t feel good to be here, feel right, even if it’s just for right now.

It shouldn’t. But it does.

 

*

 

Sam’s waiting for him on the other side, just like always, vivid and clear, afternoon sunshine tinting his face gold. 

There’s no pit, no wind, air still and calm. It’s just the two of them, sitting side by side in a grassy clearing at the ragged edge of a cliff, world stretching away for miles across the chasm.

Sam turns a long blade of grass back and forth between the fingers of one hand, first two knuckles and tip of his thumb pressed against his lips. The sight of him, warm and welcoming smile, hand pulled from his mouth as he meets Dean’s eyes, hurts Dean to the core of his soul, fills him with joy.

“Sam.”

Arms wrapped around his brother’s body, and he feels so solid, so _real_. Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the sting of tears, rush of emotion surging through him. “Fuck, I miss you.”

“I know.” Strong arms squeezing him, holding him close. “I miss you, too.” Cheek turning back and forth against Dean’s slowly, breath drawn in against his skin. “But you’re alive, Dean.”

He doesn’t want to think about that, just wants to be here, in this moment, Sam, solid and real inside his arms again, breathing out against him.

Sam’s hands close gently around his face, drawing back to look at him.

“You promised me, Dean. That you’d find something else besides hunting. You promised you’d live.”

“I can’t leave you behind,” Dean whispers, hating himself for the way it comes out, so desperate.

“You won’t.” Sam shakes his head, edges of his bangs brushing against his brow.

Late afternoon sunlight slants across them, painting the world in impossible hues.

“What we are to each other,” Sam whispers. “No one can change that.”

Dean sucks in a breath, forehead pushing against his brother’s. “He isn’t you.”

“No.” Sam’s voice is almost gentle. “He isn’t.”

There’s release in the words, acceptance, and something else Dean doesn’t want to understand.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Sam says, lips brushing lightly against his. 

Dean can feel himself slipping from the frame, sliding away.

“I love you,” Sam whispers.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

When Dean opens his eyes, he feels… peaceful. Rested, for the first time in longer than he can remember. 

_\--“I’ll always be here, Dean.”--_

Dean reaches for the leather cord around his throat, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. 

Jax touches a fingertip to the amulet lying against the hollow of Dean’s throat, looking at it intently, and Dean’s fingers stutter against the cord.

“You never take it off. What’s it mean?” Jax asks.

_Everything._

Dean licks his lips, tries to find words. “My… my brother gave it to me. When we were kids.”

Dean knows Jax can’t understand. How it’s the moment Sam had stopped believing in their dad and started believing in him. How it’s all that’s left of everything there was between them. The only tangible reminder of the bond they’d shared. 

He’s told Gemma more about his family than he’s told Jax, and it’s still not as much as this.

Jax looks at him for a moment, and then he draws away, sitting up. He lights a cigarette, setting it in the ashtray as he scoops his jeans up off the floor. He gets to his feet, cigarette pressed between his lips as he looks over his shoulder at Dean, hands deftly zipping and buttoning his jeans.

“Come on. I wanna show you something.”

 

*

 

On the roof of the clubhouse, the morning sun rises in the distance, casting everything in dim pink-purple. Thickness of pages carried up from Jax’s room clasped in one of Jax’s hands, cigarette held in the other as he contemplates the lightening sky. He’s bare-chested, jeans slung low around his hips, still too loose, but the view above them…

“My dad,” Jax says, holding out the bound pages. “He left this behind.”

Dean doesn’t completely understand, but he reaches out and takes the proffered book in one hand. Jax lets go, still staring out across the rooftop.

It isn’t until Dean sits down against the concrete, reading the title on the first page that Jax sits down beside him, one arm wrapped around his knees, other holding a cigarette to his lips as he breathes in.

_The Life and Death of SAMCRO: How the Sons of Anarchy Lost Their Way, by John Teller_

Dean opens the book, swallows hard at the dedication there.

 _For my son Thomas, who is already at peace. And Jackson, may he never know this life of chaos._

It’s eerily reminiscent of what his dad wrote about him and Sam—how he’d never wanted a life of chaos and hunting for either one of them. How he’d pulled them into it anyway.

He pushes aside the bitterness at the back of his throat and turns the page.

_First time I read Emma Goldman wasn't in a book. I was sixteen, hiking near the Nevada border. The quote was painted on a wall in red. When I saw those words it was like someone ripped them from the inside of my head. "Anarchism… stands for liberation of the human mind from the dominion of religion; the liberation of the human body from the dominion of property; liberation from shackles and restraint of government. It stands for social order based on the free grouping of individuals."_

_The concept was pure, simple, true, it inspired me, lit a rebellious fire, but ultimately I learned the lesson that Goldman, Prudot and the others learned. That true freedom requires sacrifice and pain. Most human beings only think they want freedom. In truth they yearn for the bondage of social order, rigid laws, materialism, the only freedom man really wants, is the freedom to become comfortable._

Dean can’t read beyond that point for a long moment. 

“Your dad wrote this?” Dean asks, looking up at Jax.

Jax nods, taking a hard drag off his cigarette. 

“It’s… a hell of a vision. Hard to live out,” Dean says.

Jax exhales, cutting him a look he can’t quite decipher, and then nods at the book. “That’s the story.”

“Living like this has been my whole life. Not a second of it comfortable. For the record: it sucks dick like it’s getting paid full time to do it.”

“True freedom requires sacrifice and pain.”

“Then I’m free as a motherfucker,” Dean snorts, bitter.

Jax turns his head as he stubs out his cigarette, looking Dean dead in the eye.

“No, you’re not. You’re not bound by society, or law, or _things_. But you’re not free.”

No. He’s not. 

“Nobody’s free. Outlaw, or not.” Jax shakes his head, knees spread wide, elbows resting against them, hands clasped between as he turns away, looking off into the distant sunrise. “What Sam Crow’s become… it’s not what my dad wanted. He didn’t want the blood, the violence and danger, the way things are. He saw where things were and decided he wanted to get away from the outlaw life. But he didn’t know how. Since I found this book, I’ve been trying to figure out how to bring the MC back around to his original vision. But even if we get out of gun running… start making legal money… the blood and violence won’t end. We have enemies.”

Jax shakes his head again, looking down at his hands. “We won’t ever be free. We’re trapped by everything we’ve done.”

Dean understands that all too well. “It’s not the kind of life you can just walk away from.”

Jax cuts him a sideways look, and then closes his hands around the book on Dean’s lap, turning through the pages until he finds what he wants.

He sets the book back down in Dean’s lap, one finger tapping against a few, consecutive, highlighted paragraphs.

Dean looks down, eyes finding the words, and begins to read.

_Most people are afraid to die. Everybody’s got something to lose. No matter how brave they are, when it finally sinks in that they’re going to die, there’s a moment when it hits them--acceptance, fear, regret, something._

_It’s that moment when most people know who they truly are. What they’re capable of. How far they’re willing to go for what they believe in, what they love. How everything they did before was confined by the shackles of society and government, couched in posturing and praying._

_Most people don’t long for death, but they spend most of their lives longing for the weight of its conviction._

Dean lingers over the words for a moment, feeling how deep they sink in.

“He’s not wrong,” Dean mutters, closing the book.

“I don’t know anyone else who’s been there. Except you.” Jax’s eyes flicker to meet his.

He nods, understanding what Jax is asking. It’s a lot. More than he’d be willing to give most people. But he knows _why_ Jax is asking. Knows that what he says next is going to have weight. Knows how important it is. 

“It wasn’t my death. My brother… he… died once before.” Dean licks his lips, gathering strength for the words. “I sold my soul to a crossroads demon to bring him back. She traded me one year to live.” He shakes his head, pushing back the weight of memory. “I spent that year… terrified of what was coming. But the whole time… and even when it came… when I knew I was going to die… I knew I wouldn’t have done a damned thing different. I’d have made that deal all over again.”

“I’d have given anything not to need that kind of conviction. But it didn’t change a goddamned thing.”

Jax is staring at him, compassion mingled with disbelief. “You sold your soul for your brother’s life?”

Dean clears his throat and nods once. “It was my job to take care of him. I let him down.”

Jax looks down at the rooftop between his knees, silent for a long few minutes, thinking about that. “And when your year was up?”

“I went to hell.”

“Jesus.” Jax doesn’t ask what it was like, can likely see exactly what it was like in the lines of Dean’s face. “How long?”

“Four months our time. Forty years in hell time. Castiel. He found me, brought me back.”

“Jesus fuck, Dean.” Hand touching his shoulder, and sympathetic as Jax’s expression is, he looks like he can’t quite get his head around the idea, and Dean can’t blame him.

“After all that… you still didn’t doubt?”

“He was my brother.”

Jax nods, frowning thoughtfully, hand squeezing Dean’s shoulder before it slides away.

Dean leans back against the vent, looking out across the rooftop. “What are you gonna do?”

“Find my own way. Do it different.”

“The kind of different you saw staring down the barrel of a gun yesterday?” Dean asks, tone casual.

Jax looks at him, scrutinizing, fist pressed underneath his chin, corner of his mouth quirking hard. “The kind of different I’d call crazy if you didn’t redefine crazy.”

“I’ve got issues.”

“You’ve got subscriptions,” Jax tells him.

Dean chuckles darkly, can’t help it, tilting his head to one side in agreement. And he doesn’t understand, doesn’t get this at all, because Jax isn’t wrong, and they both know it. But he’s still looking at Dean with that amused, teasing warmth glittering in his eyes.

This isn’t what Dean’s life was supposed to be. It’s not how he saw it turning out. 

_\--Promise me, Dean. Promise me you’ll live. Find something else besides hunting.--_

He’d promised, but he’d known, even then, that he was lying. He knows how much baggage he’s carrying, and he’s never expected anyone else to look him in the face and take it on. Never thought anyone could, and never blamed them one damned bit for not being able to.

He never saw this coming.

He can still feel Sam there, hovering at the edges of his awareness, but it’s different now. 

_“He cares about you,” Sam whispers._

And Dean knows it, can see it. He just doesn’t understand _why_. Isn’t sure how much he cares about “why” anymore.

Sam is forever; blood and family and love and the empty, ragged hole inside him. 

What he and Sam had… that will always be there. Nothing’s going to change that.

This is something different. Something that’s right, in an entirely different way.

No. Not entirely. There are parallels, but still… so different.

“They’re lifetime subscriptions.”

“There’s another kind?” Jax asks, mouth pulling upward in sarcastic smirk.

Dean shakes his head, breath pushing up from his lungs in a quick rush of a silent, disbelieving laugh. 

Maybe they just get each other. Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe he can have this.

“You still trying to talk me out of this?” Jax asks.

“Almost everyone I’ve ever known has ended up dead. Most of them because of knowing me.”

“Stop using my best pick up lines,” Jax tells him, still smirking.

“I could get you killed.” It’s all Dean’s got left, and it’s not nearly enough.

“So could a lot of other things.”

“Relentless fucker,” Dean whispers, succinct in the moment before he gives in, reaches out, fingers closing in Jax’s hair, pulling him in.

 

\-----

 

There’s no talking now, just holding tight to Dean, letting him turn them against the roof, weight rippling against Jax, and it feels _good_.

Jax has never met anyone who could out-fight or out-fuck him, but Dean’s giving him a hell of a run for his money. 

“Yeah. Do it,” he whispers, rocking his body up into Dean’s, cocks rubbing against each other through their jeans, chests bare, skin catching and rubbing, his hands grabbing Dean by his tight, round ass.

“God, do you ever shut up?” Dean whispers, teeth nipping against Jax’s lower lip, licking hot and slow inside his mouth.

He will if Dean keeps doing _that_ , Jesus fucking Christ, sinuous rhythm grinding against him, that mouth tasting him like he’s committing it to memory. Dean takes his time, mouth mapping out Jax’s body until he’s worked both of them out of their jeans, until Jax has forgotten what words are—what anything is except the way Dean feels against him. Tongue snaking a slow trail up the inside of his naked thigh, swirling up the underside of his swollen cock, lips closing around him.

“Fuck,” He grunts, hips bucking against the concrete, teeth digging into his lower lip. Shoving into the wet, tight heat of Dean’s mouth, one arm thrown across his forehead, hand clenched in a fist, other gripping Dean’s shoulder so hard that he’s sure it’ll bruise, but he can’t bring himself to care, because-- _fuck_.

It’s hotter than the sun, craning his neck up to watch Dean suck him, those green eyes burning into him, plush lips around his cock, cheeks hollowing as he drags up the length, and god fucking dammit, it’s too much—

“Stop. God, stop,” he hisses, hands coming up underneath Dean’s jaw line, thumbs against his cheeks, framing his face, tugging him away.

Dean slides up his body like a snake, serpentine rhythm as Dean’s cock rides against Jax’s, lips salty and wet, taste of himself driving straight through him, forearm wrapping around Dean’s neck, dragging Dean in deeper. 

Dean pushes a finger inside his mouth, and Jax sucks it in, tip of his tongue scraping up the underside, circling around Dean’s tongue and the width of it, and he doesn’t care what Dean plans to do with it, just knows whatever it is, he wants it.

Second finger pressing inside his mouth and Jax sucks hard, pushing spit down the length when he reaches the top, feels Dean shudder in response.

Dean pulls his fingers free, kisses him hard, deep, teeth pushing behind his lips, almost bruising before he pulls away, sitting up on his knees, one on either side of Jax. Wet fingertips pushing inside his body between spread legs as he tilts his head back, and it’s incendiary, watching him slide down slow to the base, the way he shivers, shudders against the feel.

Jax wants to sit up, wants to suck Dean’s dick while he rides his hand, but Dean’s other hand pushes him back, holds him away. He could fight it, if he really wanted to, but _Jesus_ , he’s got the most amazing fucking view.

The morning sun gleams off the sheen of sweat covering Dean’s body, spine arched against his own fingers buried inside him, shiny and slick with spit as he rides them. Coil of muscles beneath the skin, rippling like a tiger’s, burnished by coppery light as they work, his eyes closed, mouth open, sucking in gasping breaths as he moves his hand, stretches himself open.

God, Jax is going to come just fucking _watching_ this.

“Dean.” His voice is a broken rasp. Shaking hand reaching out to help Dean grind down against his fingers, watching how Dean takes it, how he shivers, hips shuddering against himself.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, pulling his fingers out of himself. Body falling against Jax’s, mouth devouring his, hand reaching out for the empty shell of his jeans beside them, hand digging into the pocket until he curses, finally finds what he wants, pulling it free.

Jax shudders, driving up into the feel of Dean’s hand around his cock as he rolls a condom down the length. Dean had to have had it tucked away last night, before… and he’s not complaining because Dean’s about to fuck him and he really can’t wait.

Lips touching the tip of his cock, throat working, saliva dripping down the length. Jax knows it isn’t enough, but Dean doesn’t seem to care, rearing up and back, gripping his dick by the base, slowly sinking down the length, one inch at a time, until Jax feels like he’s going to die with how slow it is, how incredible he feels, hot and tight all around him.

Dean sinks to the base, nails digging into Jax’s shoulders, his collarbones, teeth biting down into his lower lip until he’s settled, hips wriggling back and forth. And then he moves, slow drag up the length of Jax before he drives back down, hissing out a breath, pulling up and then fucking into him again.

Dean’s hotter than anything else Jax has ever seen, and maybe it’s because he knows what Dean’s capable of—that he could kill Jax if he really wanted to, but he _isn’t_ going to, doesn’t even care, just wants to ride him, fuck him into the ground. He’s incredibly hot, Jax’s hands gripping him by the waist, rising to meet him, but it’s not just that.

It’s different this time, the way Dean moves, those burning eyes meeting his between the flutter of his eyelids as he thrusts. The way Dean holds on with his hands, fingertips digging into muscle, clinging. The way he leans down, their chests sliding slick-sweat against each other, mouths fusing together in scorching, wet, slow slides of tongue. Laid out against the roof, morning sun beginning to throw off heat, reflecting off the concrete, and it’s still nowhere near as hot as everywhere their skin touches.

“Yeah,” Jax groans, hands slipping against Dean’s skin. “Fuck me.”

Dean hums back, teeth scraping under the swell of his lower lip, hips rolling a quick figure eight around his cock that makes him gasp, head rocking back against the roof, throat arching. Mouth closing over the line of his pulse, sucking blood to the skin, body rocking into him, arms hooked underneath him, hands gripping him by the shoulders as he speeds up, riding Jax harder, taking him deeper. 

Feel of Dean all over him, kissing him, tugging at him, fucking him in an all out brutal assault, and he isn’t going to be able to take it much longer, arms crushing Dean against him, fucking up into him.

So good, God, he feels so good.

“Yeah. Come on,” he gasps, shoving into Dean, biting against his mouth. “Let me feel it.”

Dean lets go of one of his shoulders, hand reaching down between them, riding the beat of their rhythm, closing around his own cock, stroking quick and hard down the length, Jax thrusting up against his fist, eyes closing against the tightness of Dean all around him.

“Shit,” Dean breathes out against his mouth, whole body seizing, clenching down around Jax so hard that he tumbles down right after, first stripe of Dean’s come streaking his belly in the instant before he comes, grabbing Dean by the hips and yanking him down. Neither of them willing to relent, pushing and shoving and shivering right over the edge, all the way through, until they’re both breathless, boneless, lying against the sun drenched rooftop.

They’re both soaked in sweat, and Dean’s weight is heavy against him, but he lies there for a minute or two, just letting Dean rest against him, palm stroking down Dean’s back. He expects Dean to make a retort, but he doesn’t, just shivers slightly when Jax rubs against a particularly sensitive spot. After a moment, he rolls them both onto their sides, pulling out of Dean slowly, one arm kept close around his shoulder.

Dean doesn’t pull away, and Jax looks at him, half squinting. “You feeling okay?”

Dean’s eyes flutter open, meeting his. “Fine. Why?”

He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like it isn’t weird that he’s lying here with Jax with Jax’s arm around him. Jax isn’t sure exactly what just changed, but something’s definitely different.

“You’re not bitching. Or trying to squirm away,” Jax notes.

Dean shrugs, eyes drifting shut again. “Figured it was easier to give up than fight it. You’re a fucking octopus. A gigantic, _girl_ octopus.”

“Just admit you like it,” Jax grins.

“Shut up.”

Jax laughs and pulls Dean in, lips pressing a quick kiss against his forehead.

“Don’t push your luck,” Dean mutters.

They lie there, quiet and content for a bit, until finally Jax can’t stand it anymore.

“Does this mean we can hold hands now?” Jax laughs, reaching for Dean’s hand.

Dean yanks his hand away, and the reproach in his eyes just makes Jax laugh harder. “I’m serious, dude. Knock it off.”

“Aw, come on, baby,” Jax teases, rolling over on top of Dean, reaching for his hand again.

“I am going to kick your ass.”

Jax just laughs even harder, wrestling with Dean against the roof until Dean rolls him back over and pins him, chuckling back.

 

*

 

Later, Jax sits on the bed in his room, his father’s journal spread open across his lap, listening to the water run in the shower.

_\--I never made a conscious decision to have the club become one thing or another. It just happened before my eyes. Each savage event was a catalyst for the next and by the time violence reached epic proportions I couldn’t see it. Blood was every color.--_

_\--Einstein said that any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex and more violent. But it takes the touch of genius and lots of courage to move something in the opposite direction. I’m realizing that my touch of genius and my courage are coming a little too late and I fear that for SAMCRO there may be no opposite direction.--_

Jax sits there for a while, words echoing in his mind as he hears the water shut off in the bathroom.

Dean emerges a few minutes later, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water still clinging to the short strands of his hair.

“C’mere,” Jax says, nodding at the space next to him on the bed.

Dean pauses, shooting him an odd, quizzical look before he continues toward the bed, settling down next to Jax. “What is it?”

“Read this.”

Dean takes the book from Jax, casting another odd glance at him before he reads the passages Jax pointed out. Jax watches him read, sees the understanding that works through Dean’s face. 

Dean waits a few moments after he’s done reading, nodding before he says, “This is about the Mayans.”

“Yeah.”

“So which direction are you moving?” Dean asks, and there’s not a bit of judgment in the question, just hedging caution, and curiosity.

“The demons are both our enemies now. We got no business fighting each other.”

Dean turns his head to look at Jax. “And?”

“We make peace with them. Show them how to protect themselves.”

Dean looks at Jax like isn’t sure he understands what Jax just said.

“We fight the demons together.”

“You’re serious?” Dean asks, hesitating a moment. “That’s kind of a big deal, right? Two rival clubs making peace?”

“It’s been done.”

“How many times?”

Jax refuses to concede the point. “You in?”

“Yeah.” Dean pulls a 'why the hell not?' face and shrugs. “I’ve faced down worse odds.”

So casual and sincere, not even phased by the craziness of the club life.

Warmth rises in his chest, pride and something more. Jax really _does_ care about Dean a lot more than he should.

And he still doesn’t give a shit.

 

\-----

 

The deal almost goes bad. Almost goes _really_ bad. But Jax manages to pull it off, and after a day or so, when they finally leave, Jax and Alavarez shake hands and clap each other on the back.

They get a calm few days or so, life leaving them alone to mostly enjoy it. Jax does his thing with the club, and the demons are quiet. Dean takes his restlessness out on the gym in the clubhouse when he’s got nothing else to do, and he runs missions with the club. Sometimes he works in the garage, usually with Jax or Tig, and finds himself satisfied with the work. He’s always had a hell of a talent when it comes to cars, and it feels good to be doing something. Most of the time, he manages to avoid Gemma, though there’s a time or two when Jax has to step in and save him.

Sam’s still there, always right there, and mostly it still hurts like a bitch. But sometimes it feels good, too.

He spends his mornings and nights with Jax, and on one particularly memorable occasion, he runs a job with Tig. Neither one of them is ever getting the tree sap stains out of their clothes. Though at least Dean doesn’t have guard dog bite scars to show for it.

He doesn’t know why he has his own room. He never sleeps in it.

Maybe they _should_ start picking out skull-print curtains.

 

 

*

 

Dean’s lying on Jax’s bed, John Teller’s journal spread out against the comforter as he reads by the lamp light. Jax is in church with the club, and Dean knows he’s got at least a couple hours alone to fill.

He’s still not used to waiting around. Inaction eats at him, itching under his skin, but weighed against what’s waiting for them on the other side of this peace, he’ll take it.

Maybe he could even get used to it. 

He folds the journal shut around one finger marking his place. He should eat something.

His appetite has slowly come back since he’s been here, and if it’s got anything to do with what’s happening here, well, he’s not thinking about that.

He falls back against the bed, journal tossed aside, Colt brought to bear as a sudden sound fills the room.

“Jesus, Cas,” he breathes, lowering the gun and putting it away. “A little warning.”

“I didn’t have time,” Cas says, half apologizing.

Dean can feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck, every nerve suddenly and completely alive as he pushes up from the bed. “What is it?”

Cas’s glance glides off him sideways, and that’s never a good sign.

“Lucifer’s followers are planning a ritual to raise one of their own.”

That’s all it takes, and fuck, he hasn’t missed this feeling. Dean feels his blood go cold, heart stuttering inside his chest as he sits up, rising from the bed. “Lucifer?” 

“No.” Castiel shakes his head, eyes meeting Dean’s. “Bezaliel.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“She was among the first human souls Lucifer corrupted. One of his most loyal. There have been stories that say she was Lucifer’s left hand, the one who worked in shadow, while Azazel worked at his right. That she was locked in a hole in hell almost thirty years ago.”

“Not that I’m not grateful for the history lesson, Cas, but what the hell does this have to do with what’s happening here?”

“I don’t know. But the ritual is happening in Charming. We don’t have much time. ”

Shit. “Great. You happen to know where this ritual is taking place?”

“Yes.”

Good, they’ve got that much. “How many demons?”

“Dozens, at least.”

Shit. “You think they’ll believe my invitation got lost in the mail?”

Castiel hesitates, squinting at him.

“They didn’t send out invitations,” Castiel tells him, earnest.

Dean stares at him for a beat, still mystified by Castiel’s lack of understanding sarcasm after all this time. 

He pulls the Colt from the small of his back, wooden handle fitting against his palm. 

“Then we’ll crash the party the old-fashioned way.”

 

*

 

Jax is busy, and Dean doesn’t want to interrupt him. Besides, there isn’t much Jax can do. Except maybe get himself killed. 

Dean drives the distance to the location on the edge of town all alone.

The sun has nearly set, last dusky bit of purple light casting the structure before him in pools of deep shadow. The warehouse is old and sprawling, rust eating away like cancer at the edges, slowly eroding it, its roof beginning to slump in places. Weeds sprout at the edges of the sandy clearing where the Impala is parked, their necks bending in the faintest breeze. He can’t hear anything but the low buzz of insects in the distance, staring into the silence of the warehouse, it’s empty, open doors and glass-less windows gaping like black, open mouths.

He doesn’t know where the hell Cas is, but if this ritual’s taking place exactly after the suns sets, he needs to get his ass in there.

He slides the Colt into his grip, uneasy.

He’s got more bullets in his pockets, for all the good they’ll do him if things go down like he thinks they’re going to. He knows he ought to be grateful that the Colt exists at all—and he is—but sometimes he wishes like hell Samuel Colt had lived in the age of semi-automatic weapons. 

The light’s almost gone, only the faintest hint of purple at the very edge of the horizon.

There’s a fluttering sound as Castiel arrives beside him, and Dean only gets halfway through the motion of bringing the gun around on him before it registers.

“Took your fucking time,” he mutters, stepping forward into the tall grass.

“I was busy,” Castiel replies, distracted.

It takes a moment for Dean to realize Castiel isn’t following him, and he stops, glancing back over his shoulder, can barely see the silhouette of Castiel cut against the backdrop of darkening sky.

“I don’t sense any demons here,” Castiel says after a moment.

Dean weighs the statement. “Any way they could throw you off?”

Castiel pauses thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side. “No.”

“We sweep the building anyway,” Dean tells him.

 

*

 

The inside of the warehouse is open from entrance to the rear of the building. One sweep of Dean’s flashlight tells the story; wooden crates shattered into splinters across the length, a few wooden boxes rotting slowly, concrete stained with dark spills.

Dean feels the tension slide away just a fraction, shining the light up toward the ceiling. Aluminum and deteriorating beams greet him, skittering sound of uneasy bird wings filling the empty space.

This place is empty, devoid of anything alive, much less supernatural.

There’s nothing here.

“Decoy.” Dean spits the word like a curse as he turns, already heading back to the Impala. “Distraction from the real site. Unless it’s bullshit,” Dean adds, looking at Castiel.

“I have to find out what’s happening,” Castiel tells him in the moment before he disappears.

 

*

 

Dean doesn’t know where the real site is and Castiel doesn’t come back to tell him, so he heads for the clubhouse.

Shit. He just hopes this whole thing was some bullshit the demons or angels tossed Cas’ way, because if it’s true, and they missed it…

Yeah. He’s not gonna think about that.

He parks on the side of the lot furthest away from the clubhouse, turning down the volume on the radio before he cuts the engine. Keys in his hand as he slides out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

The lights are on in the lower level, and fuck, they’re probably having another party.

The irony of the fact that most of the club members are doing their thing here because it’s safe from demons—because he protected them--doesn’t escape him.

He just wants to sleep. He really doesn’t want to walk through the common area. He doesn’t want to have to deal with anyone else.

The front door to the clubhouse opens, and Jax steps outside, the sound of Grace Slick’s voice following him, swelling on the mild air before wood meets wood behind him.

There’s a cigarette pressed between his lips, bright orange glow flaring between his lips as he takes a step forward, chin thrust at an upward angle.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Jax asks as he walks to where Dean’s standing in the middle of the parking lot. Jax is backlit, framed in hard shadow and light by the building behind him, and Dean can’t see as much of his expression as he wishes he could.

“Didn’t know I had to report in,” Dean returns, chin rising just as high.

“You forget we’re working together?” Jax exhales the words in a stream of smoke.

“You were busy.”

“Not busy now,” Jax says, stepping even closer.

Jax isn’t going to let this go. Fucker.

Dean should just tell the truth. It’ll be easier that way. It’ll also be a hell of a lot easier to tell it in a room they can get to without walking through a room full of people partying.

He tilts his head in the direction of the garage. 

Jax throws down his cigarette, grinding it into the gravel with one tennis shoe before he leads the way, shoulders swinging back and forth as he swaggers, hand turning the knob to the office door.

Dean follows behind him, pulling the door shut.

Jax flicks on the desk lamp, not saying anything as he lifts his eyes to Dean, question as obvious as if he’d said it out loud, reflected in his tense posture.

Fine. 

“Castiel,” Dean sighs. “He said Lucifer’s followers were raising a major player. Bezaliel, one of his first. I went to stop it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dean opens his mouth, not sure what’s going to come out. The reasons are obvious, but he doesn’t wanna have to say them..

“It didn’t pan out. Which means we got the wrong location or it was bullshit.”

Jax presses his lips together in a tight expression as he steps forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Okay, then. “There were supposed to be a couple dozen demons there. I didn’t wanna get you killed.”

Jax shakes his head, obviously angry. “You could have said something.”

“If I’d told you, would you have stayed behind?”

A muscle in Jax’s jaw works, silence building tension between them.

The door to the office slams open then. Gemma is standing there, slender figure framed by the doorway for a moment, silhouette frozen by the parking lot lights in the distance before she walks inside, eyes traveling over the ceiling, to the walls.

“Give us a minute,” Jax says.

There’s something off about the way she’s moving, the cant of her hips, the curl of her mouth as she looks at Jax.

Dean knows, understands in the fraction of a second before power flows through the room, body flung alongside Jax’s against the far wall. Pinned. They’re both pinned, and this is so much worse than bad.

“My brother… Azazel,” Gemma sighs, nails dragging along the wooden desk as she stalks closer to them. “You know that asshole had me locked up? Didn’t want anyone treading on his…” she lifts her hands fingers spread wide as she makes air quotes around her next words, “glorious campaign for Satan.”

Gemma. Shit. It’s Gemma.

“Thousands of years of hell-time locked inside a dark hole. You know what that does to a girl’s complexion?”

“Bezaliel,” Dean grates.

“Aw, you recognize me,” she grins, pinching Dean’s cheek like he’s the cutest thing she’s ever seen.

“You don’t have the vessel. You’ve got nothing,” Dean tells her, grinning hard.

“Oh, I’ve got everything, Dean.” She slips to the side, hand sliding up Jax’s throat, cupping his jaw as she looks into his eyes. “Everything, right here.”

Dean coughs out a harsh laugh. “Azazel didn’t make him. He’s not a vessel. You’re shit out of luck.”

“This lock has a different key,” she grins back, tapping Jax’s temple with one long, wine-colored fingernail. 

“Azazel didn’t stop me fast enough. I had some time to… plan my own campaign. Even had time to take a step. A very important step,” she adds, hands closing around Jax’s face.

“See, baby,” she says in a hushed voice, leaning in so close to Jax that it’s almost obscene. “When your mommy was pregnant with you, her doctor only gave you twenty percent odds on being born, maybe a couple months to live if you made it that far.”

“She was sooooo heartbroken. So guilt ridden, thinking the family curse heart defect was going to kill you,” the demon purrs with a malicious smile. 

“She would have done anything to save you. It was beautiful, really,” Bezaliel says with mock-sweetness. 

“So,” nail trailing down Jax’s cheek, coming to rest against the line of his jaw. “As her doctor, I gave her an alternative. You might say I made her a deal.” 

Dean’s breath freezes in his throat, heart hesitating, then triple-hammering, sudden adrenaline flooding through him.

No. 

Nail rubbing back and forth against skin, Gemma grinning wickedly at Jax. “Your life for a favor, one night when you were six months old.”

This is bullshit. 

“You lying bitch,” Dean growls, voice savage and desperate.

Gemma turns her head slightly, eyes flickering at him, one side of her mouth twisting up across her face in a feral grin. 

“Aw, Dean. Baby. They say lightning never strikes twice. But you know _they’re_ full of shit. Whoever _they_ are,” she shrugs, irises flashing from brown to sickly yellow. 

Shit. Shit.

“You poor thing.” Gemma’s lips purse in a burgundy-colored air-kiss, hand patting his cheek. 

Realization crushes him like ice through his bones. This is real. She’s got the power to do what she says she did... and Jax…

God, not Jax. Just this once. Please. Don’t let his life be this fucked up. _Please_.

Gemma smirks, looking back at Jax.

“And the best part? It wasn’t the heart defect that would’ve killed you. I’m good, but I’m only a demon. And even angels can’t change genetics. If they could, they’d be making and unmaking vessels left and right. Depending on which side they were on,” she shrugs. “Vessels for angels come from certain bloodlines. Some of them… like Dean… are untainted. Made for pure angels. But others,” she leans in, wrapping her hands around Jax’s face, “like Sam… like you,” forehead pressing against his, “have been tainted by demon blood, altered to house the most famous fallen angel of all.” 

She slides one hand between them, pressing the tip of her forefinger to Jax’s nose in an affectionate gesture. “You’re the one, baby.”

“You can wake up now,” she smiles.

 

\-----

 

 

Touch of her finger to the space between his eyes, and Jax can feel it, the turn of a key into a lock he never knew existed, clicking into place—something ancient and familiar slithering out between rusty doors. 

Darkness through his veins, whispering at the back of his mind, teasing with secrets. 

The thought of how much he wants to stop this consumes him, coalescing into a bright star inside his mind.

Bezaliel falls back, expression on his mother’s face one of complete surprise. “Oh, baby. So much more than I even hoped,” she grins.

Gemma’s head snaps back, black smoke flowing from her mouth like a tornado, and then he’s free, moving forward to catch her, Dean getting there just before him, cradling Gemma’s still body in his arms, knees pressed against the floor.

Jax falls to his knees beside Dean, reaching for her.

“She’s alive,” Dean whispers, thumb pressed against her pulse.

 

 

\-----

 

Dean helps Jax get Gemma into the office chair, look exchanged between them as she settles, Dean’s eyes skittering away as he backs up, letting go.

God dammit. God fucking dammit.

Gemma’s eyes flutter open, throat working as she gasps in a breath.

“Mom.” Jax falls down on one knee in front of her, hands gripping her arms, her hands locked in a death grip on the arms of the chair. “You okay?”

For an instant, Gemma looks like a hunted animal, eyes darting everywhere before they settle on Jax. 

“I’m fine, baby,” she whispers, reaching out for Jax.

Jax recoils from her touch, and the pain Dean sees in her face cuts through the panic in his heart.

“It’s me,” Gemma assures, hands turning upward, outward to Jax.

Dean backs up another step. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t know this moment exists between them. 

Fucking Christ, this moment _shouldn’t_ exist between them.

And he’s denying, delaying what’s inevitable. Fuck. He should leave.

But he can’t. Frozen to the spot, drawn in like watching a train wreck.

Jax’s eyes meet Gemma’s, looking up at her, searching for truth. “What she said… it’s true, isn’t it?”

Gemma goes very still for a moment, and then she turns sideways, reaches for the cigarettes on the desk, hand trembling slightly as she pulls one to her lips, lighting it. She takes a deep drag and pulls it away, elbow against her knee, thumb rubbing against her ring and little fingers, cigarette caught between index and middle as she blows out smoke. Dean can see her eyes well up, gleaming wet, so out of place in the firm set of her face.

“I wasn’t going to lose you.” Gemma’s voice is a rough, almost whisper, filled with fierceness. “I couldn’t. I didn’t give a shit what I had to do,” she says , wiping roughly at her face before she reaches out, hand cupping Jax’s face, mouth working, face folding inward with sadness. 

Jax closes his eyes, head tilting downward with the faintest shake, jaw working, knob of muscle there curling into a knot.

It’s true. Bezaliel didn’t lie. And that… that means…

Bitter realization courses through Dean, curdling in his veins, and fuck. No. He couldn’t be lucky, could he? Not even this once. He’s never caught a break before. Why did he think—

Falling apart. It’s all falling apart. And he never should have—

He should have fucking _known_ better.

_“Dean,” name spoken in a halted whisper, Sam’s voice._

No. He can’t… 

He can’t fucking _deal_ with this. He has to…

He needs to leave right fucking now.

He shoves the door open, his name echoing on the air in the instant before it shuts behind him.

 

*

 

Tig is standing near the end of the bar, bottle of whiskey held out to Dean.

“You want a drink?”

“No,” Dean answers, taking the bottle from Tig’s hand as he walks past.

He doesn’t want “a drink”. He wants twenty. Thirty. The whole goddamned bar.

He’ll settle for this bottle and his room.

That’s all he can deal with right now.

 

\-----

 

“Tell me what else you know,” Jax says, words coming out harsher than he wishes they were, mind caught up in Dean, wanting to follow him. But he can’t. Not until he knows she’s okay, until he knows what she knows.

“I figured you knew about the demons.” Gemma hesitates, clears her throat. “When I saw the tattoos on both of you. Your father... a guy he was in the war with came to visit once. He had the same symbol tattooed in the same place, said it kept the demons away. We all… thought he was crazy from the war,” Gemma says, lifting a hand. “And then I...”

“I couldn’t lose you, Jax.” 

“I get it.” He closes his hands around hers, holding for a moment. 

He does. Jax would’ve done worse to bring his father back.

He raises his chin, kissing her gently on the cheek. 

“You want to go after him,” Gemma says.

“Yeah,” Jax nods.

“Why?”

“Because his brother was just like me. And he died because of it.”

“Jesus,” Gemma breathes. “But you’re… you’re not--”

Jax pushes to his feet, shaking his head at her. “No. I’m not.”

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

 

*

 

He gets her home and stays with her a while to make sure she’s okay. To make sure she knows that _he’s_ okay.

After she’s asleep, nestled in the thick comforter, breathing peacefully, he walks to the fridge and pops open a beer, tossing the cap into the trash. He sits at the kitchen table, sipping it slowly in the dimmed lights of the house.

When he’s finished, he sets the bottle on the wooden table, condensation cling wetly to the glass, forming a glistening ring around the base. He stares at it, watching the way water collects against brown glass, forming long, sliding drips.

There’d been something. The moment before Bezaliel had left. When she’d fallen back away from him.

_So much more than I even hoped._

He focuses on the glass, feeling for that new, tentative awareness she’d awakened in him. Tugs at it with his will and throws it at the bottle on the table.

The bottle jerks, tipping over, glass hitting with a clink before it rolls back and forth against the wood.

He slumps back against the kitchen chair, folding his arms across his chest.

He’d done that to her—Bezaliel. He’d thrown her away from him the same way she’d thrown him against the wall.

He thinks about it for a while, decides it doesn’t change anything. Fuck, it’s even useful, considering. Besides, according to Castiel, it dies when she dies, and Jax plans on that happening extremely fucking soon.

He’s a vessel. He’s _the_ vessel.

He tries to understand it. To recognize it the way Dean obviously thinks he should.

But it means shit to him.

All he knows about vessels is that Dean’s brother was one. That Lucifer possessed him. That Dean watched him die to save the world. And what that did to Dean… he can see in every movement of Dean’s body, in every word he speaks.

Jax doesn’t give a fuck what deal was made with what demon before he was born. He’s not going out like that. 

He’s not leaving _Dean_ like that.

He knows Sam saved the world. Sam did what he had to do for the greater good. 

Sam was a hero. 

Jax isn’t.

The world can go fuck itself.

 

*

 

Dean’s room is dark when Jax opens the door, and he blinks, letting his eyes adjust as he shuts the door behind him. Dean is sitting up on the bed, shoulders against the headboard, moonlight falling in slits across his legs through the blinds. His left hand is wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle, mahogany colored liquid almost gone. In the darkness, Jax can barely make out his eyes, twin slits glittering faintly as they sharpen on him. 

Jax takes a step forward and Dean lifts his right hand from the bed, knuckles gripped tight around the handle of his .45, aiming at Jax.

 

*

 

Dean’s had enough to drink that he almost feels calm. Numb. Empty.

“My mom made a deal with a yellow-eyed demon. She did it to bring my dad back from the dead. All he asked was for one night ten years from then when she’d do nothing--the night he infected Sam with his demon blood. But my mom… she didn’t stand aside, and she died. My dad died because he wouldn’t stop hunting the demon that killed her. My brother died, because that blood made him Lucifer’s vessel. The only reason the world is still here, is because he managed to overpower Lucifer long enough to throw himself into a hell prison. It was a damned near thing… he almost didn’t pull it off.”

Dean clicks back the safety on his .45, pointing it directly at Jax’s face.

“I’m thinking the world isn’t gonna get that lucky twice.”

He couldn’t kill Sam, not even after Sam begged him to. That was too much to ask… but this. He could kill Jax. Put a bullet in his brain and end this all right now. Stop this whole thing. 

The hand holding his gun is steady, and Jax stares him down, challenge and resignation in those deep blue eyes.

“Then do it.”

Sam was his brother, but Jax isn’t. He can end it here and now, all the grief that’s sure to come. One round, black hole through the center of Jax’s forehead and it’s all done. Over.

All over. He has to do this. If he doesn’t, it could mean the end of everything. 

Sweat standing out on his forehead, tremor through the hand holding the gun, and this… this should be easy. Should be open and shut. 

_Pull the trigger._

Even if it breaks him, at least the world will survive.

_Do it._

Finger squeezing against the trigger, fractions of motion, Jax’s gaze burning into him. 

_**Do it.** _

It’s just Jax, the only other person on the face of the planet that’s ever come close to accepting him. He’s not petty enough to put that over the fate of the world. Not like he ever let it get in the way with Sam.

_Sam._

No. Not at all.

Thumb clicking on the safety, and he throws the gun across the room, metal crashing against the wall, clattering to the floor.

Jesus. He can’t.

_\--“I can’t,” he whispers, weight of him sagging into Sam, holding on with desperate hands. “I never could.”--_

Fuck. He is so fucking _fucked_. He pushes his hands against his face, and fingers close around his wrists, weight settling close to him, cover of his palms pulled away.

Jax is sitting there, moonlight cutting stripes of light and shadow across his face as he looks directly into Dean’s eyes. “Would you have done it when that demon bitch was inside me?” 

Dean’s silent for a long time, staring at Jax, muscle in his jaw working slowly. “Then?” he asks, nodding once. “Yeah.”

The rest goes unsaid, but he knows Jax can hear it anyway. 

“You shit stupid motherfucker.” Jax’s hand slides around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him in, foreheads touching, faces angling away from each other. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Jax whispers, voice rough.

Dean just knows he can’t go through this again. How many times is God going to ask him to do this? How many times, when God could reach down and _stop this_ with a single flick of his almighty hand?

Fuck God.

He yanks away, hand moving without a thought, smashing into the lamp on the nightstand, glass fracturing, shattering as it hits the floor, center rod bouncing into the midst of tangled cord and fragments, shade clattering across the floor.

It feels _good_ , sound hitting him just right, body moving from the bed before the mess settles. Foot snapping the rod, hand grabbing the other nightstand and upending it, foot kicking behind it, boot heel stomping down against the back side of it, punching through the thin particle board. Hands tangling in the empty curtain rod, ripping it from its moorings, smashing it into the wall, the window, length of it bending against the glass as he hits it repeatedly. 

“Dean.”

Hands grabbing his shoulders from behind, twisting him around from the window, and he stops himself, inches from bringing the curtain rod to bear on Jax, heart hammering in his chest, angry red haze through his mind. 

“Stop,” Jax whispers. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

“No we’re _not_ ,” Dean tells him unequivocally, hands bending the curtain rod inside his grip. “Everything is _not_ going to be okay.”

Jax pushes into his space, just as vehement. “I don’t give a shit what some fucking demon says about my bloodline. Even if Lucifer gets out, I’m not a puppet. We’ll find another way.”

Dean wants to believe him. Fuck, he wants to believe _so much_ , but he’s already seen the third reel of this movie, lived through every moment of it in slow motion Technicolor, and every night after that in his dreams.

The door to the room flies open, Tig at the forefront of Opie and Sack.

“Jax? Everything okay?” Tig asks in a reasonably concerned voice, like only someone who’s part of a biker gang and used to shit getting broken in fits of rage can. Opie starts to push past him as Jax turns, holding up a finger, staring Opie dead in the eye.

“We’re fine,” Jax growls at them.

Opie doesn’t look one damned bit happy about the step he takes backward.

“Told you they were fine,” Tig mutters as he shuts the door.

“Shit,” Dean grates, dropping the curtain rod to the floor, hands falling to his sides. “This is so fucked.”

“Dean,” Jax whispers out his name, reaching out, fingers pulling him closer, light grip across his shoulders.

Dean just knows he can’t go through this again. Can’t lose Jax like he lost Sam. Goddammit, how many times is God going to ask him to do this? 

It isn’t fucking fair.

“I can’t do this again.” Dean’s voice shakes, guttering out across the words. “I _can’t_. I can’t watch you get taken apart from the inside out and--”

Jax grips him behind his ears, thumbs pressing up under his jaw, forcing Dean to look at him. “So we stop this motherfucker before he gets out. We _end_ it.”

“There is no ending it.”

Jax digs his fingers deeper into the line beneath Dean’s jaw, eyes flashing anger as he shakes his head fractionally. “God damn it, Dean.”

“The only way is killing you,” Dean utters with finality. “Killing you, or letting you die.”

Jax presses his lips together, and Dean can see the way his jaw tightens. “Or me telling Lucifer to fuck off and find another ride.”

Dean’s eyes are wide, disbelieving as Jax settles his hands on Dean’s face, angling his jaw towards Jax’s.

“I know your brother died to save the world,” Jax whispers, words flowing out in heated breath. “But I’m not him.” Jax shakes his head, eyes savage. “I don’t give a fuck if the world goes down in a fucking flood of demons as long as the people I love are still here.”

Kiss pressed against Dean’s mouth, tongue slipping past the barrier of his lips, sweeping through, taking his time, tasting everything, fingers sliding through the short length of his hair, pulling him in deeper.

 _Love._ The word catches in Dean’s brain, stilling all other thought. 

Dean pulls back, lips catching against the edge of Jax’s, voice raw, fingers closing roughly around his jaw. “It ends with everyone you love dying. That’s what demons do.”

Blue eyes boring into his, so intense. “We will stop this.”

Fuck Jax for making him want to believe. For making him _care_.

He knows this music. Knows how this dance ends.

“We can’t,” he whispers, hands falling to Jax’s shoulders, shoving him away. “There’s no stopping it. They’re gonna break Lucifer out and you’re--”

The collision of Jax’s body into his sends him reeling back against the wall, weight of Jax’s body following behind, hand reaching up to clasp his jaw hard.

“You asshole. We don’t know what’s gonna happen yet. I know what you went through before, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like that this time.”

Dean brings up his forearm, slamming it into Jax’s, shoving Jax’s hand from his jaw, body pivoting and turning off the wall, other hand striking palm first into Jax’s shoulder, throwing him backward.

“I know exactly what it’s going to be like,” Dean growls, taking a step forward.

“Then why didn’t you kill me?” Jax demands, stepping up to meet him, muscle in his jaw coiling. “Why are you still here?” 

“I’m here because I’m a hunter,” Dean snaps. “Because I have to stop this no matter which way it goes.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Jax asks, taking another step into his space.

“Because…”

_\--You like him--_

Fuck. It’s so much more than that.

“You’re going to die,” Dean whispers, hands gripping Jax by the shoulders, pushing him away. “And I’m going to have live with it.” Dean shakes his head, fighting against the dread in his stomach. “And I can’t… not again.” He swallows hard against the taste of bitterness in his throat. “So get out. Leave.”

Jax’s eyes narrow on him, and then Jax barrels into him again, hands shoving him back against the wall, fingers grabbing the back of his head, yanking him in.

“I love you, you stupid son of a bitch,” Jax whispers, teeth closing around Dean’s lower lip in the moment after the words. Tongue lashing hot across his lower lip, and he’s frozen for a moment, can’t think, can’t breathe.

No.

Dean swallows hard, eyes closing. 

“And _I’m_ the stupid son of a bitch?” Dean asks, uttering the words weakly.

“You hear me, you stubborn motherfucker?” Jax demands, shaking Dean once for emphasis. “I love you. I’m not gonna die. And I’m not leaving you.”

He wants to believe it all, slender thread of hope tied directly to Jax’s words, to the determination and confidence behind them. Tied to the way Jax feels against him, the way he’s touching Dean. The way _Dean_ feels, heart and stomach twisting end over end, and this wasn’t supposed to happen, was never supposed to happen, but it’s way beyond Dean’s control, way beyond stopping, now. 

Dean reaches for him, hands closing around Jax’s face as he kisses him. He wants to believe Jax, but he doesn’t… just like he doesn’t care what this might cost him, how much it might kill him later.

Yeah. He _is_ a stupid son of a bitch.

It’s a desperate kiss, Dean’s hands pulling at Jax’s vest, and Jax answers in kind, swinging Dean away from the wall, arms wrapped around his shoulders as they fall to the bed together. 

This. Just this moment. That’s all Dean can handle. Dean just needs to feel Jax, bare against him, feel all of him, wants to forget everything else, hands tearing at Jax’s clothes. Jax moves with him, stripping away their clothes until Jax has him pressed down against the bed, kissing into him, hips working wicked rhythm against his, cock catching and dragging against Dean’s, sparks of friction shooting through him hard enough that he bites down on Jax’s lower lip, teeth almost closing tight enough to taste blood.

“Come on. Fuck me,” Dean gasps, arching up against Jax, arms wrapped around his back, feeling the flex and pull of muscle, the beat of his heart. There’s nothing fragile about Jax except for the way Dean knows his heart can stop beating, how it can beat for something else.

Jax’s hips shudder against his, sensation sending shivers all through him, and he needs this, needs to forget.

“Do it,” he whispers, voice thick with need.

“Dean…” name whispered out against his mouth, unsaid words he doesn’t want to hear the meaning of.

“ _Do it_.”

Jax’s teeth close around his jaw, biting down deep against the bone, mouth sliding lower, tongue riding down the line of his pulse, swirling out across his collarbone, too close, too intimate, and he can’t help the way he pushes into it, nails digging into the skin of Jax’s back before he pulls away, and reaches for the drawer.

Dean’s confused for a moment when Jax wraps his hand around the head of his cock, smoothing a condom down the length. Slick fist following behind, and then he can’t do anything except groan, hips pushing into the feel. Wet hand stroking him, and he’s lost in it until the moment Jax moves, straddling him.

Wait. He didn’t… This isn’t…

Jax flexes his stomach muscles, pushing down against the head of his cock, hands splayed against his shoulders, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he keeps going, thrusts down the length and hisses out a breath, nails digging into Dean’s skin. So hot and tight, muscles flexing around his dick as Jax takes Dean to the base, leaving Dean shivering with how good it feels, hands gripping tight to Jax’s hips. Jax’s weight falling against him, mouth meeting his, chests shivering against each other as they move, hips pulling apart and then thrusting together. 

He’d wanted Jax to fill him up, fuck him out, make him forget. He wasn’t ready for this, the way it feels, Jax riding him at a slow gallop, gradually picking up speed, the way Jax is kissing him, tongue sliding deep and tasting him.

“You wanted me to fuck you,” Jax whispers out hot, tongue flickering against his lips. 

Twist of his hips, sending Dean’s brain crashing against his skull, and fuck, he’s so hot, muscles rippling underneath the bronze of his skin, pulling up and away from him, put on full display for Dean, hands gripping Dean’s waist as he moves, cock jutting up at an angle away from his body. Thin sheen of sweat coating him, making him glisten in the moonlight, and Dean can barely stand to watch.

Jax moves against him, riding him, relentless tug and pull, Dean rising to meet him. He can’t stand against this, can’t stand against the way it feels—the way it _feels_.

It aches, hurts, memories so close, everything that happened before, about to happen again. But Dean can’t turn away from it. Can’t deny how he wants it.

Maybe he’s just a sick, pathetic motherfucker. But this is what he’s got. 

Hand rising, fingers stroking through Jax’s hair, tightening, pulling him in close, mouth shoved brutally into his. 

Fuck Jax. Fuck Jax for giving a shit. For loving him.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He wasn’t supposed to…

God. Jax moving against him, mouth kissing him back wickedly, twisting against the pull of Dean’s hand in his hair, and he’s beautiful, perfect, everything that’s going to destroy Dean to the core. 

Fuck him for a fool, fuck it all.

Hands grabbing Jax by the shoulders, shoving and twisting him down against the bed, pushing up off his knees, arms circling tight around Jax’s lower back, fucking into him deep and hard, mouths melding together. Dance of skin to skin, sweat slicking the way, and Jax twists underneath him, hips arching up against the thrust.

_\--“Yeah, Dean, God,” Sam breathes out, straining underneath him, and he feels like everything._

_This is it. The last time.--_

The sense that he needs to feel all of this, feel it now, before it’s too late is overwhelming, and Dean hates himself for it, hates God for putting him here _again_. 

Quick twist of hips, driving deep to the bottom, Jax biting into Dean’s lower lip, shuddering against him, rising from the bed to meet him, fingers closing tight, digging into the muscles of his ass. The feel of him, alive and breathing, the heat of his skin, the way they move against and into each other, and Dean can barely stand to know how it feels, can’t think about anything except how he’s going to miss this, too.

Dean fucks into Jax harder, tongue delving deep into his mouth, searching out every single taste, thinks maybe if he can kiss Jax deep enough, fuck Jax hard enough, he can forget everything else. Rough hands cupping the curve of Jax’s ass, lifting him up a little, hips angling a little deeper, and he _thrusts_ , using all the strength of his lower back to propel forward, slamming to the bottom and yanking back, twisting and pounding back in, Jax gasping into his mouth. He picks up speed, fucking harder, faster, deeper, hitting every sweet spot as he drills into Jax, devouring the sounds Jax makes, sweat standing out against his skin as he curses Dean with every four letter word in existence in the best possible way.

Even with as much as he’s had to drink, Dean isn’t going to be able to hold out much longer, not with the way Jax is moving underneath him, biting and pulling at him.

“Yeah… come… on…” Jax groans, words falling out of him between thrusts, each one leaving him like a gunshot, fingernails tightening, scraping up the skin of Dean’s shoulder bones. One hand sliding away, pushing down between them, Jax wrapping his fingers around his own cock, and it’s so hot, fuck so hot.

Dean’s hips piston forward, motion slamming him past the barrier of his thoughts, flying out over the edge as Jax comes, squeezing down around his cock so tight that his mind vaporizes, and for a brief, few seconds, there’s nothing except the oblivion of the complete pleasure racking his body, making him quiver and twist and shudder, hissing out a string of words against Jax’s cheek, teeth biting down against fragile skin for an instant before he draws back, thrusting with an upward angle, Jax grunting against him with how good it feels, the way the clench of him draws another wrenching burst of pleasure from Dean.

He rides it out, already feeling the moment leave him, reality struggling back inside his skull, wondering why it can’t just be _this_. Be this simple.

The last, jagged shudders of orgasm ripple through them as they slow, finally settling as Dean falls against Jax, side of his face landing on Jax’s collarbone. He struggles to breathe, the sound of Jax’s heartbeat rising from beneath the skin, pounding just as hard as Dean’s.

Jax wraps an arm around his waist, other hand fitting to the curve of Dean’s skull, resting there. He doesn’t tease Dean, he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t ask if Dean’s okay; just holds him like that. 

It hurts to the bone that Jax knows him this well. It hurts like a motherfucker and feels like comfort all at the same time.

Dean knows he should move. But he’s tired of moving, and he hasn’t felt anything like comfort in a really long fucking time. He stays there, inside the circle of Jax’s arms, waiting until he can breathe again, until reality creeps back in so deep that he can’t be there anymore.

He draws away, pulling out of Jax gently, and all he wants is to sleep, but he needs to clean up, let Jax clean up. That’s what he knows how to do.

“We can clean up in the morning,” Jax whispers out, gruff, hands moving, reaching, weight shifting, turning them both on their sides.

Dean closes his teeth around his lower lip. He shouldn’t be here, be here doing this. He rolls over on his side, away from Jax, even though he’s got nowhere to go—maybe he can sleep in Jax’s room—when Jax’s hands close around his shoulders, pulling him back gently, body settling up behind Dean’s, arms closing around his waist.

Any other night, the last few days, this would be almost normal—the most normal Dean’s life has been in a long time, anyway. Tonight is different fucking story. Tonight is the apocalypse served up all over again like a shit sandwich with a heaping side of fuck all that just won’t die. But Dean’s tired enough, drunk enough, fucked up enough, something enough to let Jax pull him in, warmth of his body as much comfort as it is pain. 

He reaches down, stripping the condom from his soft cock, throwing it into the trash can next to the bed, reaching for the nightstand, closing around the neck of the whiskey bottle. 

Jax doesn’t say anything as he uncaps it, and Dean doesn’t tell Jax how Castiel came by to visit before Jax showed up. How Cas told him that Bezaliel is powerful enough to open the cage they locked Lucifer in. He shoves all that into a box and locks it away for now, last, long drink pulled from the bottle, pushing it back onto the nightstand. He curls into the feel of Jax’s body, waiting for the last of the whiskey to do its job; waiting until his eyes finally slide shut.

 

*

 

The whole world swirls as Sam falls into the pit, grass and earth falling away in chunks behind him, behind Adam.

This is it, the end, and Dean wants to die, wants more than anything to call Sam back, to touch him, tell him everything. 

A hand rises over the rim, knuckles bony and clutching against the ground. Frost that he knows belongs to Lucifer rising up the blades of grass before they wither and die.

Ice crusts underneath the edges of those fingernails, and he knows it’s not Sam. It’s not Sam, but it _is_ , and all he wants is to put his hand into his brother’s, let it drag him away to whatever waits below.

Desperate arms crawl over the edge of the pit, inching into the grass, pushing the upper body up until Dean can see his face.

Long blond hair tumbles around the angle of his jaw, eyes deep blue and feral.

“Come with me, Dean,” Jax whispers, holding out his hand.

A burst of sound wakes him, echoing up through his lungs, fingers crushing into his palms through the bed sheets, body slick with sweat.

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Heart rabbiting inside his chest, and this is not fucking _okay_.

He sucks in quick, harsh breaths, willing himself to slow down. It was just a dream, just a fucking dream. 

“Dean, hey, it’s okay.” Jax’s voice is rough, arms closing around his chest, and it’s _not_. 

It’s never going to be okay.

It always ends bloody.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

There are warm arms wrapped around Dean as he wakes, body pressed against the length of his from chest to thigh. In the moment his gaze focuses, there are almond shaped eyes staring back at him, pink mouth wider, fuller, lips parted, breathing out his name.

Dean pushes away and blinks hard, brain still half-asleep, struggling to understand what’s happening, filled with a sense of wrongness; he can’t be seeing this right. 

“C’mere.” Hands insistent, pulling him back in, hot brush of lips against his.

It doesn’t feel wrong, the way his mouth melts against his brother’s, the sleek slide of his tongue. But it can’t be Sam, because…

He pulls back again as the truth hits his sluggish brain. It’s still Sam—even though every single bit of him knows it isn’t, Sam is all he can see, all he can hear, all he can feel. His brains snaps awake then, the last of his dreaming mind fading out. Sam’s eyes flash and change, hazel to deep, brilliant blue, face narrowing, illusion dissolving until he can see Jax, frowning at him slightly in confusion.

Shit. He flexes his fingers in the muscles of Jax’s shoulders, pushing away.

“Dean?”

Dean’s already off the bed when Jax sits up. It was only a few seconds maybe, but long enough to leave him shaken, confused. 

He really is losing his mind. This is a whole new level of crazy.

“What’s wrong?” Jax is behind Dean now, hand on Dean’s shoulder.

He has to tell Jax something, something that will explain why he pushed Jax away like he was on fire and ran from the bed.

“Just… for a couple of seconds there… you looked like someone else.”

Jax only hesitates a second before he asks, “Who?”

“Someone who’s dead.”

There’s a pause before Jax asks, “That ever happened before?”

“No.”

Jax doesn’t say anything for a moment, pressing his chest against Dean’s back and sliding an arm around his waist, chin resting on Dean’s shoulder. “Damn. Guess that kills the mood.”

Dean huffs out a breath, surprised and faintly amused. He doesn’t know how Jax stares his crazy right in the face and doesn’t seem to give a shit. For an moment, the urge to ask is overwhelming, filling him with need for an instant before it’s buried beneath how soul-weary and worn out he feels. 

“You hungry?” Jax asks.

He isn’t. But he’ll eat anyway, because he doesn’t want to Jax to know how fucked in the head he is right now.

 

*

 

Jax shovels down his breakfast and heads off to the garage to help Bobby with something, leaving Dean alone in the club house with Charlie. Charlie’s plenty happy to pour him a shot before she leaves the bar and disappears into the kitchen to clean up. And hell, he probably could have asked for one while Jax was still here and Jax wouldn’t have batted an eye either. This isn’t the kind of crowd that stages interventions for alcohol.

Warmth floods his belly as he downs the shot, and he feels just the tiniest bit better.

The door to the club house opens, and Dean turns, seeing shafts of sunlight pierce the smoke still hanging in the air for a moment. Gemma appears around the corner of the short hallway, tall in her three-inch heels and skin-tight black jeans, light leather jacket pulled over a red blouse that dips low to show off her cleavage. She looks as formidable and poised as ever, but Dean can see the shadows beneath her eyes, skin too white in the space between.

The warmth in his stomach fades, muscles tensing as he turns back to his breakfast. He doesn’t have the strength or patience to fight with her, can feel his defenses coming up.

He can hear the click of her heels against the floor as she walks up to the bar, stopping next to him. 

“Shots with breakfast?” Gemma asks, arching a brow at the glass. “Hell, you fit right in, don’t you?”

“Really? You came here to give me shit about my drinking habits?” Dean asks sharply, shooting her a skeptical look.

“No,” she answers mildly, not giving an inch as she sets her purse down against the bar. “I came here to talk about Jax.”

Dean sets his fork down against the plate, turning to look at her quizzically. “You think there’s anything you can say I haven’t already thought about?”

Gemma’s mouth tightens.

“You recognized the tattoos that morning, didn’t you? That’s why you let it go so easy.”

Gemma seems caught off guard by his response, looking at him hard before she puts a hand on her hip, considering. After a moment, she tilts her head, as if in acquiescence, hand tucking a strand of frosted hair behind one ear.

“When John came back from the war, there was another guy from John’s group came to visit. Wasn’t right in the head. Didn’t stay long. But he had the same tattoo. He talked about monsters and demons all the time, said the tattoo kept the demons from possessing him. Nobody believed him. But then… I met a demon. Did a little research after that, figured out he was telling the truth about that much, anyway.”

Dean shakes his head, perplexed. “Then why didn’t you…?”

“Tell my husband we needed matching tattoos like the crazy guy’s?” she asks, and even disregarding the dry tone of her voice, Dean gets it. “I figured we’d hope for the best. Maybe the deal I made would keep us all safe.”

“So when you saw us with the same tattoos, you knew. Why didn’t you say something?”

It’s a long moment before Gemma answers, and Dean can see the struggle of emotion in her face, so subtle beneath her composure. 

“I knew you both knew about demons,” she finally says, voice edged with guilt. “I didn’t know why. I thought getting rid of you might take care of it. I didn’t… I didn’t know it was because of me.” She runs a hand along her face, looking away from Dean. “Shit. I fucked this up.”

All Dean can wonder is what his mom would have done if she’d lived to see what happened to Sam. She couldn’t have known what she was condemning him to. All she’d wanted was to save their dad’s life, and even after witnessing the moment she’d made the deal firsthand, Dean can’t blame her for it. She didn’t know.

“You did what you had to do,” he tells her, after a moment. He can see the guilt in her, etched into every line in her face, mirror reflection of his own, and shitty as he feels right now, he feels a need to ease the burden on her a little. Shit, he confessed almost everything to Jax last night, this shouldn’t be much harder. “I sold my soul to a demon to save my brother’s life, once.”

Gemma’s eyes snap to meet his with surprise.

“Nothing’s more important than family.”

She tilts her head at Dean, understanding blooming slowly, until she nods once in agreement. 

“My mom made the same deal as you. To save my dad’s life. My brother, Sam… he was like…” Dean swallows hard, getting out the words with difficulty, “like Jax is.”

“Jax told me that. He said… that’s why your brother died.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Is it because he was a ‘vessel’? Like Jax? What does that mean?”

Dean swallows hard, looking across the bar at her. “You really wanna know?”

She looks at him and nods with the kind of strength that makes him believe she can take knowing. “Yeah.”

It takes him a few moments to find the words, to find the will to speak them, and even then he can’t keep the bitterness and despair from them. “It means if Lucifer gets out of the cage we locked him in, Jax is the one he’ll want to possess this time. To reach his true level of power.”

“Lucifer?” she whispers disbelieving.

“Trust me. I _wish_ I was kidding.”

“Jesus,” Gemma whispers, clearly convinced by what she sees in Dean’s expression. She drags a hand across her mouth, trying to collect her composure. “And if that happens?”

“End of the world,” Dean tells her, grim. “Game over.”

“But you can stop it,” she says stepping closer to him, voice half hope, half statement. 

“I can kill demons. But if they get Lucifer out… he’ll go after Jax.” Dean takes a second, voice rough as he goes on. “Jax has to agree to let him in, since Lucifer’s technically an angel. Angels need permission. Demons don’t.”

Relief floods through Gemma’s expression then, tension in her easing. “Jax would never do that.”

“My brother did,” he answers, wry and bleak.

“Why?” she asks, brown eyes questioning him gently.

“To save the world,” Dean answers, rubbing a hand across his face before he starts to reach for the shot glass, remembering it’s already empty. Gemma looks at the glass, and then looks at him pointedly before she walks around the bar, picking up the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind it. She walks toward Dean and opens it, pouring amber liquid into the glass.

She pulls another glass from underneath the bar and pours a second shot for herself.

Dean eyes it, cynical smile tugging at his mouth, bitterness and sadness curling inside him behind dark humor. “Shots with breakfast?”

“I had breakfast three hours ago,” Gemma tells him, arching a brow at him, one corner of her mouth quirking in a smirk just as cynical as his.

She lifts her glass at him and then tips it back. Dean’s surprised for a moment, and then does the same. Gemma leaves the bottle and her glass on the bar as she walks back around to stand next to him. 

“So how does it work?” she asks.

“Lucifer needs the right vessel to be at full power. But he only needs a temp to start the end of the world.”

“Then you have stop him getting out.”

“That’s the job,” Dean nods, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “That, or die trying.”

Gemma stops then, looking at him in an entirely different way, one that leaves him feeling distinctly uncomfortable and makes him want to squirm.

“Tell me something, Dean. You protecting Jax to save the world,” she asks, “or because you care about him like you did your brother?”

Dean can’t find the words to answer her, can’t even begin to sort that out.

Gemma looks at him for a moment, scrutinizing, like she can see right through him, and what he sees in her expression makes him want to look away—too much understanding, too much recognition. 

“Shit,” she says. The look in her eyes is one of unfathomable pity and empathy. 

“You’re screwed, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Her voice is mild and matter-of-fact as she shakes her head. 

Dean’s still trying to process that when she speaks again.

“As far as what’s between you two goes… You fuck this up,” she says in all seriousness, “You fuck _him_ up—I’ll shoot you myself.”

Dean nods. He doesn’t have any words, but that seems good enough for her. Her expression smoothes out, and her eyes are almost gentle.

“And everything else…” Gemma says, cupping Dean’s face in her hands. “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Dean nods, clearing the emotion from his throat.

She leans in, pressing her lips against his cheek, gentle and cool.

“You’d damned well better. You’re all we’ve got.”

She draws back, looking at him with a faint, sad smile. She pats his cheek affectionately then, steps back and pulls her purse onto her shoulder. He listens to the sound of her heels recede until the door to clubhouse opens and closes.

Dean sits there for a long time after Gemma's gone, unable to shake the feeling that he can’t deliver what he just promised, that he isn’t worthy of the trust she’s just given him. 

 

*

 

After he leaves his breakfast cold and unfinished on the bar, he goes to his room and sits on the bed, feeling like an idiot as he lowers his head and bites out a quick prayer to Castiel.

“Dean. I’m here.”

Dean looks up, meeting those curious, concerned, intense blue eyes, and for just a second, he feels something like comfort. He could give a fuck about God, but Castiel is always there when he calls, that same look on his face.

“Have you found out anything else?” Castiel asks, stepping forward.

Dean presses his lips together between his teeth, holding for a moment before he releases, hands knotting into a single fist across his knees. “It’s Jax. Jax is the vessel.”

Castiel turns his head fractionally, squinting at Dean. “You’re sure?”

“So fucking sure,” Dean rasps, shaking his head.

“Then our course is clear.”

“No. It’s fucking not--and don’t you dare disappear and do something I’ll have to kill you for later.”

Castiel looks at him, confused. “If he’s the vessel, we need to destroy him.”

“That’s not an option.”

Castiel takes a moment to look at Dean and then walks a few steps across the room, looking off into the distance as he nods. “You care for him. Like you did for Sam.”

“Not like Sam,” Dean whispers, hands squeezing tighter. He doesn’t want to have to add to that, but this is Castiel, and Castiel isn’t exactly great with nuances. “But yes.”

“Then what do you want from me, Dean?” Castiel asks.

“Find out what Bezaliel has planned. Watch her. We have to stop her before she lets Satan out of the box.”

“I have been watching.”

“Good.” Dean stops, clearing his throat. “That’s good. But no matter what happens, Jax stays alive. We clear?”

“I won’t harm him, Dean. But I can’t speak for the rest of my kind.”

Dean nods. “I know. That’s why I need you to watch out for him, too.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. “But if the remaining archangels go after him…”

“I know. Just do the best you can.”

Castiel considers him for a moment and then nods. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nods again, looking at Dean for a moment longer, and then he vanishes.

Dean sits there for a long moment in silence, finally easing the Colt free and setting it on the bed beside him. He heaves a sigh and then reaches for the cellphone in his pocket.

He’s got one more call he needs to make, and this one’s going even less pleasant.

He scrolls to Bobby’s number, staring at it for a long time. 

_Hey, Bobby, guess what? I’m fucking the Anti-Christ. Again._

Fuck.

He flips the phone shut and throws it down on the bed, rubbing his hands across his face.

 

*

 

He spends the day protecting the rest of Sons’ compound, from the garage to the playground to the lot itself. Busy is good. Busy distracts him from spending the whole day alone with his thoughts. If he can’t do anything else, at least he can do this, pouring salt, painting and etching symbols, the sun beating down against his back so fiercely that he has to strip down to his undershirt, sweat dripping from him in rivulets as he works.

At some point after the sun passes the midday mark, Dean is kneeling in the sand of the playground, settling symbols drawn on paper beneath the play mats by the fence, sun burning the back of his neck.

“You ever gonna take a break?” 

Gemma’s voice carries from the entrance of the playground as she rounds the gate through the low fence.

Dean rises to his feet, feeling sweat drip down the length of his spine, off the end of his nose, wiping his face as he turns to meet her.

“You’re gonna collapse from heatstroke, you keep it up,” she chides, handing him a bottled water and a sandwich half wrapped in a paper towel.

Dean looks at the items in her hands for a moment, wondering. He hasn’t forgotten basic manners, though, so he takes them from her, nodding once. “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” Gemma nods back, one corner of her mouth curling in a smile.

He watches her walk from the playground, distant ache in his chest.

 

*

 

The sun is heading toward the horizon when Dean checks in on Jax at the garage, stealing a quick look from beyond the open bay door. Jax is up to his elbows in grease, engrossed in conversation with Opie while Opie hands him a tool.

Jax is working. He’s safe.

Dean moves on, heading up to his room for a shower. He’s covered in a layer of dust on top of a layer of dried salt, and the hot water feels good, stinging against his sunburned skin, forehead pressed against the tile-board beneath the showerhead, steaming rivers streaming down his back.

He focuses on the moment, because if he focuses on anything else…

Shower. Shower and then bed. That’s what he’s got left in him.

He turns the temperature down a notch, hissing against the heat of water against his skin.

 

 

*

 

He’s better once he turns off the water, feels more awake and aware and ready. He’s pretty sure the feeling won’t last long, but it’ll be enough to carry him to bed.

He wants a drink more than he wants anything else, but he pushes past the desire, wrapping a towel around his waist before he opens the door.

Jax is waiting in the room for him, stopping in the middle of pacing the floor.

Dean can tell at a glance that Jax came to talk, and it isn’t going to be a short conversation.

“Is someone dying?” he asks.

“No.”

Dean presses his lips between his teeth, breathes in hard.

“Let me get dressed, first.”

 

*

 

Dean’s got his jeans dragged up around his hips, button closed and fly zipped, t-shirt tugged down over his head, before he turns and faces Jax.

He doesn’t say anything, waits for Jax to start, steeling himself for whatever comes.

Jax meets his gaze without any pretense. “I have to tell the club.”

It’s not the end of the world, never mind if it sounds like the worst idea Dean’s ever heard. “You think that’s smart?”

Jax nods slowly in the dim light, not bothering to sit. “I’ve kept them out of it long enough. Now that we know, they need to know. They need to know who they’re backing before someone else tells them.”

From Jax’s point of view, considering the way things have been going, it’s probably the best option—not the smartest, but the best. Not that it means for a second that Dean thinks he should do it or plans to support it. “Think they’ll believe you?”

Jax shrugs with one shoulder. “I don’t know if _I’d_ believe it, if I hadn’t been there.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I give them an option to walk.”

Dean wishes it was ever that simple. “And what if they _do_ believe you? And they decide you’re dangerous?”

Jax shakes his head. “Never happen.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Dean asks, anger rising inside him as he advances on Jax. He needs Jax to understand this. “I know they’re your brothers, but they’re not blood. We’re talking about the end of the world. Things get bad enough, and someone starts thinking about how this’d all be over if you were dead. You wanna add maybe having to worry about that to the list? The less people who know, the better.”

Jax thinks about that for a moment, corners of his mouth turning upward ruefully. “Chance I have to take. This way, they know I told ‘em the truth, they can make up their own minds. I lie and they find out? They _know_ they can’t trust me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters angrily.

Jax steps forward, looking at him intently. “Clay did that shit for years. Lied to the club until we were so twisted up we couldn’t see straight. Nobody trusted anybody. When I took over, I changed that. I’m not gonna start lying to them now because I don’t trust them.”

Dean bites down against his lower lip and turns away. God damn it. Jax isn’t going to listen to him, that much is clear, and fucking stupid as he thinks this plan is, it’s not like he can _do_ anything about it.

“I want you at the meeting.”

Dean frowns and then turns back around slowly, disbelieving. “What?”

“You know more about this than anybody. If they have questions… you can answer them.”

“Or it could make them think you’re a puppet with my hand shoved up your _ass_ ,” Dean tells him, irate. “You know how fucking crazy we both sound?”

“I know,” Jax answers, solemn and firm.

Dean grinds his teeth together violently. “When do you wanna tell them?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Maybe he can convince Jax before it happens. Or maybe the world will end before that and it won’t be problem. Or maybe a house will fall on him and he won’t have to give a shit anymore.

Jesus. He really just needs someone to point him at what to shoot.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He already knows what to shoot to get this over with.

“Bezaliel’s strong enough,” he tells Jax. “To open the cage. To set Lucifer free.”

Jax goes very still, gauging his words. “You’re sure?”

Dean nods, taking in a deep breath. “Castiel told me last night.”

Understanding dawn’s in Jax’s eyes. “You motherfucker. You should’ve told me.”

“Telling you now.”

Jax looks at him for a long moment, calculating.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jax says, shrugging. “We’re gonna stop it.”

“ _If_ the club buys off on our story,” Dean shoots back, anger beginning to bleed into his voice, “they’re never gonna believe we can stop it. I don’t know how they could when _I_ don’t.”

Jax stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowing, mouth working angrily.

“Fine. What if you’re right? What if we don’t stop it, and _that’s_ how they find out?” he demands.

“Fuck if I know,” Dean throws back. “I ran out of easy answers thirty years ago. All I know is, it doesn’t even have to be _them_ that’ll come for you. Word of this gets out? And this town’ll be swarming with hunters dying to kill the vessel. Right now, nobody knows it’s you except me, you and Gemma, and that bitch Bezaliel. Bezaliel knows what’ll happen if she tells anyone who you are, she’s got no reason to say anything. Me and Gemma aren’t gonna say anything. You trust anyone else that much?”

“You trust Castiel that much?” Jax shoots back. 

“With my life. And yours. Castiel went up against Michael and Lucifer to try and save Sam. He died for it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jax mutters in disbelief. “How many times have you all died?” 

Dean can see the slightest bit of doubt pushing at the edges of Jax’s expression, and Dean hates it, hates that he has to be the one to put it there. But he’s not sorry.

“This isn’t just about the club. This is way bigger than the club. Every hunter, every angel, every demon that follows Crowley… they’re all going to be out for your blood if they find out who you are. I can kill a lot of things, but I can’t kill them _all_ , and neither can you. Every single person who knows means that much more of a chance of everyone finding out you’re the vessel. Even if they don’t wanna sell you out, the right kind of blackmail—the life of one of their kids, their wives—could be enough.”

“They’d come to me,” Jax says with a quick shake of his head.

“I know they’d risk a lot, maybe die for you in a heartbeat for a lot of other things… but for being Lucifer’s vessel? With demon blood running through your veins?” Dean feels like the world’s biggest asshole, but he _needs_ Jax to understand this. 

Jax stops, suddenly looking at Dean with his full attention. “Demon blood?”

“That night Bezaliel came into your nursery, she fed you her blood, just like Azazel did to Sam. It’s what makes you the vessel. It’s where the power comes from.” 

Something shifts in Jax’s expression, and Dean feels his heart sink.

“What power did you get?” Dean asks quietly.

Jax curls the tip of his tongue between his teeth behind his lips, pushing them out, cheeks hollowing as he looks away, shakes his head.

Shit. Dean swallows hard and puts that shit away for later. One step, one moment at a time.

“You wanna tell them the truth?” Dean asks, keeping his voice low. “This is the truth you’re gonna have to tell them. You’re gonna have to show them… whatever it is you can do. You’re taking a lot on faith if you think they’re not gonna look at you different.”

Jax bites at the inside of his cheek, chewing against the inner skin, lost in thought until he finally looks at Dean again. “Did you look at your brother different?”

And now Dean has to glance away, throat tightening. Dean pushes his tongue out between his lips, closing them around it and pushing it back in, skin caught tight between his teeth for a moment. “There were times when Sam scared the shit out of me.”

“You didn’t leave him.”

“He was my little brother. I raised him from the time he was a baby. I spent my whole life right next to him. I _knew_ him. And still… sometimes… he scared me. It took a long time for me to believe I wasn’t gonna lose him to whatever was inside him.”

When he looks at Jax again, he can see the impact of his words.

“If they find out because we screw this up…being pissed off at you for not telling them earlier is gonna be low on the list of concerns.” 

A muscle in Jax’s jaw tightens, shoulders shifting, head yanking to one side, shaking once. He takes a moment, lips pressed together in a thin line, and Dean can see it all in his face, behind his eyes, how he’d write Dean off in a second if he thought Dean was telling anything less than the truth, how he _wants_ to, anyway. 

“You asshole,” Jax mutters.

Dean nods, accepting that without question. He knows what he’s just done, what he’s damaged here. But if it keeps Jax alive a little longer…

Finally, Jax nods, jaw still tense. “We keep it quiet.”

Dean knows how much the words cost Jax, feels guilty for the relief that floods through him. “I know it’s--”

“Wouldn’t have made the decision if I couldn’t carry it,” Jax says, cutting him off.

Jax sways up to him, face a few inches from Dean’s as he contemplates Dean, hands held at his sides. Dean can feel the heat radiating from him, focused on those intense, blue eyes.

“Are you scared of me?” Jax asks in all seriousness.

Dean feels the words pierce him, feels his stomach sink to his feet, and thinks, _not yet_. Terrified _for_ him, but not scared of him. Yet.

“You wish,” Dean whispers instead, shoving everything he’s feeling aside, hands coming up to close around Jax’s jaw.

 

*

 

It’s hours later, moonlight streaming long, silvery bands through the blinds when Dean startles awake, cursing the split second it takes to disentangle himself from Jax’s embrace, Colt pulled from beneath the pillow as he sits up.

The shadow at the end of the bed takes shape as it steps forward, moonlight revealing Castiel’s tan overcoat, patchwork pieces of his face, flowing clearly across one cheek and one eye, glimmering in the shadowy depths of the other, mouth shaded heavily at the corner where his face falls away into darkness.

Castiel’s expression, only half-revealed by the cold light, is enough to set Dean on edge, hairs on the back of his neck prickling, every nerve ending standing up straight. 

He knows before he even asks. “What is it?”

“Bezaliel,” Castiel says. “She’s going to open the cage tonight.”

Shit, fuck, shit. He’d thought they’d had more time. This is every fucking nightmare coming true all over again right in front of him.

He doesn’t have time to think about it.

“In Kansas?” Dean demands as he shoves up off the bed, pulling on clothes, fighting back against the adrenaline making his hands shake. He’s aware of Jax doing the same on the other side of the bed, and doesn’t pay any attention beyond recognizing it.

“No,” Castiel answers. “The cage is accessible from many points.”

“Where is she doing it?” Dean snaps.

“In San Jose. In a house that was built by one of the women of your family bloodline.”

It takes a moment for the words to click, for him to make the obvious connections.

“The Winchester Mystery House? You’re fucking kidding.”

“It’s a ghost trap,” Castiel explains.

“I know what it is,” Dean hisses, running a hand through his hair. The fact that it was built by someone from his family bloodline makes so much sense, but he’s going to have to deal with that revelation later.

“It’s on a thin spot,” Castiel goes on, “where hell touches close to earth.”

That makes even more sense. Jesus fuck. God dammit. “Even if you zapped us there right now, it’s a maze, Cas. We’d never find them.”

“Humans and ghosts would become lost,” Castiel agrees. “But it doesn’t confuse demons or angels.”

“You can take me to them?” Dean asks, breathless.

“Yes.”

“I’m going with you.” It’s all Jax says, gritty and final as he steps up beside Dean.

Dean spins on him, anger coursing through him on the heels of adrenaline. “The fuck you are. If they get him free, you’re the vessel he needs. You need to be as far away from him as possible.”

“If he gets out, he’ll find me no matter what, right?” Jax asks, raising his brows. “I’m not letting that fucker in. And I’m not letting you go alone.”

They don’t have time to argue. God dammit. Bezaliel and her followers aren’t going to kill Jax—they need him--but god _dammit_ …

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice is filled with an unasked question that Dean understands intrinsically. 

“He goes,” Dean answers. “How much time do we have?”

“None. I’m going to have to take you there.”

Dean starts moving. It only takes a moment to load the Colt, shove more bullets into his jacket pockets, the pockets of his jeans. He loads the .45 and packs extra rounds for that, too, wishing he had time to go for some of the automatic weapons the club keeps nearby in case of emergencies. Vials of holy water, and shit, he’d like to visit the trunk of the Impala and pack a bag that would send the demons running.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low, insistent.

He turns and nods at Castiel. “Do it.”

 

*

 

The world slips sideways, reality smearing like a bad picture frame, paneled wood blending into Castiel’s face, into Jax’s—and then—

It smoothes out, sliding into place, surging forward for an instant like going just one frame too far before it rolls backward, leaving him in the present.

The room they’re in is huge, some kind of gigantic hall, lush carpet and high ceilings, chandeliers dangling down like jewels.

The demons are gathered in close knot near the center of the room, backs turned to them as they cluster around an urn filled with flickering fire. They chant in unison, voices filling the huge room, one figure at the forefront of the mass lifting her arms, chanting more loudly than the rest.

“Bezaliel,” Dean whispers, drawing the Colt free from his jeans. Castiel on one side of him, Jax on the other, and he wants this done.

He can make the shot from here. It won’t be easy at this distance, but he can do it. 

_“What if you’re wrong?”_

_Then I’ll see you soon, Sam._

He lifts the Colt, closing one eye as he aligns the sight with Bezaliel’s head. 

A petite, dark-skinned woman appears directly in front of them, dressed in an impeccable gray suit, eyes flaring rage.

Dean doesn’t hesitate, changes his aim and squeezes the trigger of the Colt, bullet taking her through the breastbone, bloody hole right through her heart, crimson bleeding out through the wide, crisp collar of her suit jacket. 

She barely staggers backward, not even looking down at the wound.

“Insufferable annoyances,” she growls with a flick of her hand, flinging Dean and Jax against the wall.

“Raphael,” Castiel says in a stunned whisper.

Fuck. Raphael. An archangel. Fuck.

Dean can see her wound already healing, blood flow slowing, and then stopping inside the span of seconds. He’s always wondered if the Colt could kill an angel—now he knows.

Raphael cocks her head to look at Castiel—

And Cas is _gone_ , flickering out in a whisper of wings as if he’d never been there.

_Fuck._

“Dammit, Cas.”

“You,” Raphael mutters, eyes fixing on Dean. “Always screwing up our plans.”

“It’s what I do,” Dean asserts with a nasty grin. “You on the other hand… slumming with demons. Must be a new all time low for you.”

“It’s a means to an end,” Raphael shrugs. “We need each other to open the gate, to get Michael and Lucifer free so they can fight as they were always intended. The destiny _you_ screwed up.”

Dean feels his grin go sharp as razor blades around the edges. “God would be so proud.”

“What you did was blasphemy,” Raphael hisses, expression darkening, face thrusting into his.

“Didn’t see God trying to stop me. Besides isn’t this blasphemy?” Dean flicks his eyes at the demons, indicating Raphael’s alliance with them.

“Don’t see God trying to stop me,” she echoes with a flare of her brows.

“Maybe that’s why _I’m_ here,” he smirks. He doesn’t believe it for a fucking second, but he knows it’ll get under Raphael’s skin.

For a second he can see the sudden anger in her, rising like storms in her dark eyes. And then she stops, stepping back. Raphael tilts her head at him, chuckling -- an empty, humorless sound.

“So righteous. As if you were a pious follower of God. Don’t even try, Dean. You’re fornicating with this vessel like you were with the last one. This tainted thing,” Raphael tosses a disgusted glance in Jax’s direction, eyes falling on Dean with the same expression. “Barely a step up from fornicating with your tainted brother.”

Dean can hear Jax’s harsh intake of breath.

Dammit, no. Not like this.

“Oh,” Raphael says, feigning surprise as she looks at Jax. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” Raphael steps closer to Jax, and all of Jax’s attention is focused on the angel now, chin trying to rise a fraction in defiance of the advance. “He and Sam were lovers,” Raphael confides, leaning in close to Jax. “Filthy with incest and sodomy and sin.”

Dean can’t see the expression on Jax’s face, and he doesn’t want to, can imagine it all too well, sick fire twisting up through his guts.

“Bullshit,” Jax growls, and it’s another slice against Dean’s soul, cutting deep, drawing guilt that flows like blood.

Raphael leans her face back, looking at Jax, and then she flicks her eyes toward Dean with the cold, hard hint of a smile. 

“See for yourself,” she says, reaching out, touching one palm to Dean’s forehead, the other to Jax’s.

Light explodes behind Dean’s eyes and then—

 

_\--“Don’t,” Dean breathes, barely able to shake his head, barely able to draw breath for the words._

_Sam is sixteen, too close to Dean as they sit on the sagging front porch of the rundown house their dad rented for them in the middle of Nebraska, and this is so wrong, guts clenching in a knot that tells him to run, to stop this, now. His little brother, huge hazel eyes looking at him with more than he can stand to see, his mouth breathing out hot against Dean’s._

_“Don’t tell me to stop,” Sam whispers, sun shining down on them, bright and merry in every single way this is not. “Because I don’t want to.”_

_And fucked up as he is, Dean doesn’t want him to, either--_

 

_\--Sam is twenty-two, kissing Dean inside some nameless motel room._

_“I didn’t leave for Stanford because of this, Dean. I left because of Dad. Because of this life. Not you.”--_

 

_\--“About what happened to me…”_

_“Don’t,” Dean breathes, mouth pressed into the curve where Sam’s shoulder meets his neck, memory of his death still too close, too real. “Just need to feel you.”--_

 

_\--“Dean. God, Dean.” Sam’s voice is wrecked, guttering against Dean’s throat, lips moving against skin, hands gripping him tight, pulling him close. “Thought I lost you forever. Fuck, missed you so much.”--_

 

_\--His hands clasp Sam’s face between them, amulet charm pressing into Sam’s cheek as Dean pulls him closer, mouths meeting in a desperate collision, and fuck, it’s been so long, all the distance and bullshit between them and Dean can’t even remember how they got here, why they ever let it make a damned bit of difference._

_This is it, the last time they’ll ever be together like this, and they’re both hungry for it, desperate, needing to feel each other._

_“Sam,” Dean whispers into his brother’s mouth, hands trembling as he pulls his brother down against the motel bed.--_

 

It ends then, sudden cutting off that leaves Dean breathless, drained. 

Dean slowly blinks his eyes open, vision blurred, cheeks wet.

The face of Raphael’s host is etched with malicious glee.

“Jesus.” Jax whispers the word, guttural and twisted.

From the corner of his eye, Dean can see the same glaze of tears coating Jax’s cheek. He doesn’t understand what it means, can’t think about that right now because—

He knows. Jax knows.

“Your savior’s not so righteous now, is he?” Raphael asks, looking at Jax. 

Jax takes a moment, and Dean can feel Jax look at him sideways, thinks he can feel judgment in that gaze.

“Doesn’t change my answer. I’m not your bitch,” Jax growls the words, utterly unafraid, and Dean closes his eyes momentarily against the rush of emotion and pride that surges through him. 

He doesn’t have the right to feel it, especially not now, but he can’t help it, corner of his mouth curling in a proud, hard smirk.

“No. You’re Lucifer’s bitch,” Raphael says, unaffected. She leans in, arms braced on either side of Jax, staring Jax in the eyes. “And when we release him,” she says, words cold, dancing low and dangerous from her tongue like a cobra, “you’ll dance, like the pretty, meaningless, meat puppet you are. We will have the battle we were promised. We _will_ have our apocalypse. Or else I’ll kill your mother, and every one of your brothers—every single person that’s ever meant anything to you.”

“You fucking _bitch_.” Jax strains with rage, trying to shove himself from the wall.

“But for now,” Raphael goes on, pushing off the wall, turning those dark, calculating eyes on Dean, stepping closer. “I owe you, Dean. And if it helps convince you to say yes when we free Michael… well, we’ll call that a bonus.”

“Screw you.” Dean can feel the rise of power in the air, crackling electricity across his skin, Raphael’s hand closing around his chin, fingers digging into skin, yanking his chin up.

“You’re the cause of this chaos. _You’re_ the reason I’m consorting with demons. You and your brother messed up everything. Lucifer and Michael, the apocalypse.” Raphael shakes her head once, eyes bitterly cold as the arctic. “I need you alive, Dean, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kill you and bring you back a few times in the meantime. I’m… going to enjoy this.”

Holy fire courses through him, blood boiling in his veins, eating him alive, and he throws back his head, screaming.

 

\-----

 

Beside Jax, Dean begins to scream in agony, and he tries to move, shove against the wall, held still and sure. Goddammit. 

“Dean,” he yells, sound torn from him in desperation.

Dean’s screams curdle into a bubbling gurgle of sound, and she’s killing him, God dammit. He needs to—has to—

“Sorry to interrupt the party.” Crowley’s voice carries through the room, as arrogant, oily and sarcastic as it’s ever been. 

There’s an army of possessed humans standing behind him.

Raphael lets go of Dean and spins—

Castiel appears from nowhere, silver spike in his hand, hand thrusting it up and under Raphael’s breastbone.

“You,” Raphael rasps.

“Goodbye, brother.”

Jax falls from the wall, free, catching his weight on his hands and feet. From the corner of his eye, he can see Dean hit the floor like an empty sack of flesh.

Raphael begins to glow, light rising from her skin, ominous thrum of power through the room.

Jax dives, hitting the floor next to Dean as Raphael explodes.

 

\-----

 

The world erupts in blinding light, and suddenly the pain searing through Dean is gone, world tipping from pure white into black. Pulled down into darkness like the swirl of water to a drain, and he feels himself spin apart with it, drawn inexorably toward the end.

It almost feels good, and part of him wants to follow it down into nothingness, into rest.

“No.” Sam’s voice is a bare whisper, fingers sweeping over Dean’s face, pulling him in close, drawing him back up. “Not yet, Dean.”

“Sam,” he whispers, hands clasping desperately at his brother’s jaw. “I’m tired.” 

“I know.” Light brush of Sam’s lips against his. “But you’re not done, yet.”

 

*

 

Eyes fluttering open to wan light, unsure of where he is-- _why_ he is. Slowly focusing on the face in front of him.

“Dean.” Castiel is kneeling above him, to one side, Jax kneeling on the other, the expressions on both their faces relieved.

“Cas? You brought me back?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s voice is gritty, urgent, one hand flinging away the demons hurtling toward him, other hand resting on his shoulder. 

“You okay?” Jax asks, and Dean nods--even before he takes a moment to assess that he feels fine, like brand new.

Beyond them, Dean can hear the sound of demons fighting; see them swarming each other from the corner of his eye.

“Why… how?” he asks, turning his head toward the battle in confusion.

“Crowley,” Castiel answers, and there are so many layers voiced in the word that Dean cranes his head sharply to look at Castiel. “I had him bring help.”

Dean stares at Cas for a moment, understanding.

Castiel throws back another wave of demons, ignoring Dean’s expression for now. “I can’t kill them all. We have to go now.”

“We’re not leaving,” Dean says, pushing up from the floor on his elbows.

“Dean.” Castiel’s expression is pleading.

Dean levels his eyes on Cas in an uncompromising glare. “This ends here. Now.”

Cas heaves out a breath, clearly unhappy. “All I can do is try to hold some of them back.”

“Then do it.”

Castiel rises to his feet, pulling Dean with him, Jax grabbing Dean’s arm to steady him. There’s just a moment where Dean’s eyes meet Jax’s, understanding passing between them. They’ll make their stand here. Whatever happens after this, they’ll deal with it then.

They turn as someone moves up along the wall at the edge of their vision, Castiel turning with them.

“Bye, Castiel,” Bezaliel grins, slamming her bloodied palm in the center of a banishing sigil.

Castiel whips his head to look at Dean, expression stricken in the instant before he vanishes in a flash of light.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Demons aren’t supposed to be able to do that. Are they?

“How the fuck…?”

Bezaliel thrusts her crimson-stained palm at Dean and Jax, fingers splayed wide, both of them thrown backward through the air, backs meeting the far wall of the room. 

“I’m old, Dean. Lucifer taught me everything I know, including the banishing sigils.” She walks closer to them, dark hair swaying behind her. “And I’m as powerful as my brother was; more powerful than any other demon you’ve ever met. Except Lilith,” Bezaliel adds with a tilt of her head. 

 

\-----

 

Jax is getting really fucking tired of being pinned against walls.

This whole thing—in Dean’s words—sucks dick like it’s getting paid full time to do it and he’s fucking had it with demons and angels throwing him around. Before Bezaliel showed up, there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it.

But now…

Jax knows he can do this. He just needs to focus, reach for that awareness buried inside him while she’s busy with Dean.

“He’s so pretty, isn’t he?” she asks Dean, glancing at Jax. “Looking at him, you’d never know he had a heart defect. Not that it’ll matter to Lucifer.”

He can feel it there, that maddening itch of a bright star. He digs deeper, world falling away, a blur of motion and sound. It shifts, slithering out of his grasp, and he grabs for it, feels it slip through.

“Besides, you’ve got your own heart defect, don’t you, Dean? Falling in love with vessels, trying uselessly to save them… You’re really just doomed, aren’t you?”

Jax takes a deep breath, takes a step back inside his mind. He doesn’t have to reach for it, force it. It’s part of him. Like an arm or a leg. All he has to do is use it. 

“Poor baby,” Bezaliel coos at Dean, and it pisses Jax off, dark lightning that shoots through him, giving him strength.

There.

Jax feels it build, wild and chaotic as it courses through him, and he reaches out, recognition brought to a sharp, deadly point and he throws it, all his will behind it. It costs him, sharp pain splitting his skull, blood trickling from his nose, but it’s enough. Bezaliel’s face spins back and away from Dean, hair following in wild arc, body falling backward, hitting the floor.

It’s easier, now that’s he’s let go and tapped into it. Power rushes through him, unfamiliar and somehow right, closing like a fist around her. He’s free now, standing on his own two feet, everything in him focused on Bezaliel, holding her there.

All around them, demons thrash and fight in a frenzy of bodies, blood and broken bones and the gush of black smoke swirling from bodies too damaged to be any good, and he ignores it, holds her still.

Dean moves from the wall, advancing on her, and she grins up at him, teeth smeared red with blood, her eyes sickly yellow.

 

\-----

 

“He’s powerful,” Bezaliel says, glancing to indicate Jax as she grins up at Dean. “A force to rival Sam. Just look at him, using his power like he was born to do. He’s going to make a perfect vessel.”

Dean can’t know this. He doesn’t want to know this. 

“Shut up,” he growls, going to one knee to meet her eye to eye.

“Go on,” she tells him, almost reveling. “Kill me. It won’t save Sam. _Nothing_ can save him. Just like nothing can save Jax. Story of your life, Dean. Left behind. Watching everyone you love die.” 

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“By the way,” Bezaliel confides, tone falling to a mock-whisper. “Lucifer’s tearing your brother apart. There’s almost nothing left of him. Just enough to understand what’s happening to him. That’s the only part Lucifer will ever let survive.”

“He screams for you constantly, Dean. To save him,” she whispers, obscenely intimate.

Dean doesn’t even feel the way his sanity snaps, thin cord tethering him finally falling away.

Dean pulls the knife from his belt and guts Bezaliel almost before the words are finished, flashbulb pop echoing in Bezaliel’s face.

He doesn’t pause, standing and reaching for the small of his back, Colt tugged free, hammer pulled back as he levels and fires. A ragged hole appears in the forehead of the demon closest to him, body collapsing to the floor like a sack of meat as Dean begins to chant.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas...”

Around him, the demons all begin to scream, hands gripping their heads, fingers twisting in their hair. 

“Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te ...”

One manages to break free of the pain, throwing itself at Dean with a scream of inhuman rage. Dean turns into it, shoulder thrusting as he shoves the knife through its heart. He twists the blade, scraping bone before he drags it free.

“Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ…”

The room begins to rumble, dust rising in clouds from the floor, shaking down from the ceiling.

“Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge…”

The demons come at him, screaming flurry of maddened bodies, crush and surge of them all around. Trigger pulled on the Colt, knife shoving deep into flesh, nothing but pure killing instinct guiding him now. Easy, it’s so easy, like it’s happening in slow motion, underwater, their movements slow and sluggish as he guts them, gun empty now, bodies piling in a bloody circle around him.

Cold fire sings in his blood, and it sounds like death.

 

\-----

 

“Bollocks,” Crowley mutters in pain from nearby Jax, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You and me,” he nods at Jax, winking, “later.”

“All right, troops. Time to go,” Crowley calls out—and just like that, half the bodies in the room vanish along with Crowley.

Dean is unaffected, moving like a whirlwind, drawing the remaining demons to him as he cuts through them like a scythe.

Jax’s father’s words run through his head, unbidden.

_“Most men are afraid to die. Everybody’s got something to lose. No matter how brave they are, when it finally sinks in that they’re going to die, there’s a moment when it hits them--realization, fear, regret, something.”_

Dean’s eyes are empty.

Almost a hundred demons closing in on him in a knot and his eyes are empty. Feral grin stretching his mouth, lips and teeth painted red with the spatter of blood, and he looks _savage_ , deadly, like the weapon Jax has always known he is.

Whatever power Jax’d had flicked off like a switch when Bezaliel died. He can’t help beyond firing off the few shots in his gun to slow them down.

Dean isn’t going to live through this.

 

\-----

 

Dean ducks a clumsy swing from another demon and rises with a smirk, booted heel driving into the back of its knee with a satisfying snap as it staggers past. Its leg is useless now, Achilles tendon shredded and coiled like a tiny snake, and Dean knocks it away with a swing of his arm. Another rises in its wake, its expression eager, so eager to make him bleed. Dean’s face is carved stone as he punches it in the face, knife sliding between its ribs with a flickering flash.

Instinct screams, fluid responses quicker than thought as he spins around, elbow slamming into the face of the demon behind him almost before he realizes it’s there. Blood surges through his veins, heart pumping, adrenaline surging, and he revels in it.

This ends _here_.

He pivots, turning on one heel, knife shoved through the heart of the demon behind him. He doesn’t hesitate, dragging it free and slicing the throat of the next demon coming at him. The weight of them crushes in against him, pressing in on every side, hands tearing at him, teeth and nails scraping skin like wild animals.

Elbows thrusting, knife slicing and he throws them back by inches, spins and cuts the throats of two of them, blade sinking between the ribs of a third before the rest rush in. Maybe this is his day. Maybe this is how he goes out. But he’s taking them with him.

Muscles straining, shoving, pushing for inches of room, coated in sweat and blood dripping from his skin, soaking through his clothes.

They close in around him like a noose, pulled so tight and close that they’re frozen, locked together in stillness, eyes of the demon in front of him flashing black, its teeth gnashing uselessly. Dean grunts, shoving upward with one hand as far as he can, the demon’s eyes flying wide, light pulsing up through its throat, every vertebrae standing out through skin.

Dean shoves the body away from him with all his strength, pulling the knife free, elbow thrown backward into the face of the demon behind him. 

Tiniest bit of room, and then it closes up, bodies pushing in on him again.

Too many of them—so many—suffocating him with their sheer weight.

“…Invocato a nobis sancto et terribili Nomini,” he hears someone say, feeling the demons fall back, sudden release, air surging into his lungs.

Dean turns to see who—

_Beside him, Sam shoots, knocking back one of the demons rushing at Dean. “You have to finish it.”_

The words glance off Dean as he turns, shoving the knife through the neck of the demon coming up behind Sam.

_“You can’t do this forever,” Sam warns as he shoots another demon, driving it back._

Dean yanks the knife from the demon’s neck, turning to slice another.

_Hard hand, gripping him by the shoulder. “ **Dean**.” Sam’s voice is a loud boom that he can’t ignore, hazel eyes fixing on him desperately. “Finish it.”_

For a moment, all around them, the world moves on a different plane, apart from where they are. Demons converging on all sides, and he needs to move, needs to kill them, but this is more important.

Sam nods with finality, and Dean understands.

_“Ergo, draco maledicte…” Sam chants._

Dean picks up the rhythm of it, saying it with Sam, words flowing out as he cuts a swath of death through the knot of demons clustering around them.

“Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura…” they chant in unison, and Dean can feel the power of it, their voices rising through the room as Dean throws an elbow forward into a demon’s throat.

“…tibi facias libertate servire,” pivot and spin, knife thrust into the softness beneath the point of a demon’s chin, tugging free, upper body pushing forward, legs turning his body to get just the right angle.

“…te rogamus, audi nos,” Dean utters, shoving the blade deep inside another demon.

The room shivers with power, walls vibrating, floor shaking, every demon stopping where they stand, black smoke hurtling from their mouths in one synchronous, agonizing scream.

Mass exorcism, and they’re gone. Blood spattered across him, coppery taste of it inside his mouth, knife in one hand, Colt still in the other. Dead and unconscious bodies litter the floor. It’s over. It’s over but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The need to destroy everything in his path still pounds in his blood, black energy flickering at the edges of his consciousness.

_“Dean.” The hand on his shoulder his gentle, his brother’s face tilting down at him. “Dean. It’s okay. You can stop now.”_

The words penetrate the fog surrounding his brain, vicious, cold need inside him slowly ebbing. He stops then, hears the thundering of his heart, the desperate rush of his lungs to draw breath, realizes the trembling of his muscles, pushed nearly to the point of collapse. Sweat dripping from him in waves, and he’s hot, so fucking hot that he feels like he’s burning up, clothes sticking to him, soaked through with sweat and blood. Leaning down, hands pressed to his knees as he tries to slow his breathing. 

_“You’re safe. Jax is safe.”_

Safe. Shit, he doesn’t even know what the word “safe” means.

_“It’s over.” Sam is standing in front of him, gun in hand, head craning to look out across the room. “You did it.”_

“ _We_ did it,” Dean asserts, including Sam in the statement.

_Sam tilts his head as he drops the gun, turning to Dean, and Dean can see the bodies of the dead through him. “You know I’m not really here.”_

And yeah, maybe he fucking does. But…

“Maybe I wanna believe you are.” Dean can feel the want, a deep ache inside his chest.

_“I’m not going anywhere.” Sam whispers, hazel eyes sad and dead serious as he looks at Dean. “But you’ve got more to do. You’ve got something to live for.”_

“Jax is…” Dean shakes his head, weight heavy in his heart. “He’s still…”

_“You said it yourself. He’s not me.”_

“What about you? What she said…”

_“I made my choice. It’s not your responsibility anymore.”_

Brush of Sam’s hand against his face, and Dean leans into the touch, closes his eyes. 

_“I love you, Dean.”_

Fingertips pressing lightly against Dean’s skin, and Dean misses him, fuck, he misses him. 

_“Live. For me,” Sam whispers._

Sam fades, touch of his fingertips still warm on Dean’s cheek.

“Dean.” Jax’s voice is rough, hand grabbing him by the shoulder, shaking his eyes open. 

His vision is blurred for a moment, Jax’s features resolving into reality. 

Reality.

The reality where Jax is still the vessel. Where Jax knows about him and Sam. 

_You’ve got something to live for._

He wishes he could believe that.

Jax opens his mouth to say something when Castiel appears beside them.

Dean doesn’t bother to glance at him, though there’s no doubt who he’s speaking to. “Made it back awfully quick.”

“Demon blood doesn’t have the power to send us far.”

Jax cuts a momentary look at Cas and then focuses on Dean. “You okay?” 

No. He’s really not okay. He doesn’t think he’s ever gonna be okay. But he’s not going to die right now, and so he nods at Jax, flipping the chamber of the Colt open and beginning to reload. 

Everything that’s happened tonight… it all feels like too much. He’s so tired, but Sam’s right about one thing. He’s still got more to do.

“The fight’s finished,” Jax tells him, looking at the gun in Dean’s hands, not understanding.

“No,” Dean replies with the barest shake of his head. “It isn’t.”

He can feel the combined weight Castiel and Jax’s eyes on him.

He calmly loads another bullet into the chamber, not glancing up as he speaks. “So. Castiel. How long you been working with Crowley?”

There’s a long silence before Castiel shifts inside his overcoat, voice hesitant, apologetic. “Dean…”

“You, Raphael; angels working with demons is the new black. All I wanna know is why? What’s in it for you?”

Castiel exhales a slow breath. “Nothing, now. We had a deal… I needed his help to gain enough power to defeat Raphael. To keep him from ruling heaven and bringing about the apocalypse all over again.”

Dean’s sure he doesn’t want to know the details. “So Crowley agreed to help because killing Lucifer’s followers is in his best interest, and I’m the best chance to get it done.”

There’s another hesitation, lasting long past the moment when Dean flicks his wrist, chamber clicking into place in the Colt.

“Yes.”

Dean nods once, still not looking up at Castiel. “And it gave you the chance to take out Raphael while he was distracted. Win, win.”

“Yes,” Castiel admits. “I could save you, and end my deal with Crowley.”

“I’m thinking he’s not gonna be happy about that outcome,” Dean says, lifting his eyes to look at Castiel.

“I’d say that’s a bit of an understatement,” Crowley says, moving up behind Jax and Castiel. 

Dean’s got the Colt aimed at his face before Castiel and Jax turn, both of them backing away to stand on either side of Dean.

“Whatever deal you had with Castiel, with me, it’s done. Consider this our official resignation,” he adds, cocking the hammer on the Colt.

“Afraid I can’t let it go at that,” Crowley says, taking another step forward. “Castiel’s a loss, but Jax…” Crowley’s dark eyes move to look Jax up and down. “He’s a liability.”

Dean feels the words echo through him hollowly.

“He’s the vessel, Dean,” Crowley goes on, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Lucifer’s vessel. You know what that means. Do you really want to go through that again?”

The hand holding the Colt wavers.

“Dean,” Jax says, voice grating. “Don’t li--”

“This negotiation doesn’t require your input,” Crowley says, holding up a hand to silence Jax, freezing him in place.

Dean could stop him, _should_ stop him… but…

“You’ve killed some of Lucifer’s followers, Dean. But there are more. And they will try until they succeed at raising him.” Crowley steps even closer, almost whispering. “And Jax will say yes. Just like Sam did.”

_Just like Sam did._

All of his worst fears spoken aloud, and they’re like solvent against the last bit of glue still holding him together. The room presses in on him, emotion tangled and thick, just as oppressive. He feels like an animal caught in a trap, and he…

“You know he has to die.”

Dean feels the truth of it, feels it to the core of his soul, deeper than bones, weight of it searing his heart.

_Just like Sam did._

“ _Before_ Lucifer gets free. If he’s dead, they’ve got no reason to raise Lucifer.”

It’s truth Dean can’t bear, truth that he’s known all along, but until tonight he’d hoped. Fuck, he’d _hoped_.

“You have to kill him. You know it.”

Dean knows. He knows he should. He knows it’s the only way to end this forever. He’d ask why Crowley’s trying to convince him rather than doing it himself, but he knows the answer is in his hand, aimed right at Crowley’s face. This is his decision.

And fuck. If he’s honest, he made his decision a couple exits back, for better or for worse. 

Dean takes a breath and two quick steps forward, barrel of the Colt shoved against Crowley’s forehead. “He’s not Sam.”

“Always clinging to hope,” Crowley rolls his eyes up and to the side of the barrel of the Colt. “It’s a miracle humanity’s survived as long as it has.”

“Or maybe it’s the reason humanity’s survived,” Castiel says.

“Oh, please,” Crowley rolls his eyes even harder. “ _Spare me_ the philosophical lectures on the greatness of humanity as told by a lapsed angel.”

“There a reason you haven’t fried him yet?” Dean asks, cutting his eyes at Castiel.

“It’s no longer possible,” Castiel admits with regret in his voice. “Part of the deal we made.”

“I really don’t wanna know, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“Fine,” Dean grates, looking at Crowley. “This is the deal. Jax walks. We all walk. And you get to live.”

“Even if there were any chance of that happening, why would you let me live?” Crowley asks, like Dean’s reasoning is so far below him that he can’t fathom it.

“Same reason you told me killing you would be stupid before. King of hell, yadda yadda, willing to make deals other won’t.”

Crowley thinks that over for a moment. “What’s in it for me?”

“I don’t think you understand who’s holding the gun that will send your ass packing for eternity,” Dean accentuates the statement by shoving the Colt against Crowley’s skull, leaning in close, hissing out the rest of the words. “You come for him, send anyone for him, and I will kill you. And I’ll kill every sorry sonuvabitch that moves in to take your place that tries to come after him.”

“That only works if you stick around, Dean,” Crowley smirks.

“I’m telling you—this is how it goes down. Or I end you here and now.”

“Such a drama queen.” Crowley sighs. “Fine. Jax walks. But if you’re not around to protect him from Lucifer’s followers, I _will_ come for him.”

“You let me worry about that.”

“Good enough. For now,” Crowley agrees.

“Gentlemen,” Crowley nods, condescending, and then vanishes.

Jax comes free of Crowley’s hold then, staggering forward belatedly.

There’s nothing but silence between the three of them as everything sinks in, and then Dean looks at Castiel, tucking the Colt against the small of his back.

“Take us back.”

 

*

 

Dean’s back in his room at the clubhouse, Castiel standing in front of him, hands lodged in the pockets of his overcoat.

“Where’s Jax?”

“I left him in his room,” Castiel explains. “I thought you might prefer… some time.”

Right, because, on top of everything else, Jax knows the truth about him—about him and Sam. 

Dean sits down against the bed, hand running across his jaw shaking his head. “This is so fucked.”

Castiel takes a moment, drawing in breath. “Dean… I was invisible… but I was there for part of what Raphael put you through…” He trails off, hesitating for a moment before he continues. “I always knew about you and Sam. It doesn’t change anything. Incest played a large role in the beginning of the world, through many centuries of reproduction.”

Dean chokes out a surprised snort. “Really?” he asks, voice cracking with bitterness, cynicism.

“Yes.” Castiel doesn’t hesitate as he answers, as earnestly as he’s ever done.

Right.

“And sodomy?” Dean asks, barely able to speak the words.

“I care nothing about sex based on gender. Or relation.”

Dean tilts his head up at Castiel, slanting sideways to look at him. No wonder Castiel’s always been his friend. Maybe Dean just attracts that kind of crazy. Considering his crazy support is pretty much all that’s kept his gun out of his mouth the last couple of years, he guesses it’s better than nothing.

“You’re right,” Castiel goes on, blue eyes steady as he looks at Dean. “It doesn’t have to be the way it was before.”

“So you think Jax opting out is the plan?” Dean demands. “Just letting the apocalypse start while Lucifer’s in someone else’s body?”

“If it comes to that, maybe.” Castiel tilts his head, uncertain. “At least he wouldn’t be at full power. But Lucifer’s in the cage. If we keep him there, the apocalypse will never have to happen. It requires special circumstances to free Lucifer a second time. Lilith’s death was the catalyst the first time. It’s much more complicated now. With Bezaliel dead, it will be difficult for Lucifer’s followers to reorganize. It takes a demon connected directly to him to help free him.”

Then maybe… Dean can barely hope, feels too old to hope. “You’re saying we’re safe?”

“For now,” Castiel nods. “There are others who may rise.”

Dean settles his hands together across his knees, fingers twisting fitfully against each other. “You think there’s even a chance that won’t happen?”

“I don’t know. Those demons have been silent for eons. But if they do rise… I’ll be there to help.”

Sam leans against the wall near Cas, arms folded across his chest, and Dean looks to him.

_“You have to start believing sometime, Dean.”_

Taking advice from a rogue angel and an apparition of his dead brother—his life is definitely never gonna be normal.

It’s not a sure thing, but hell, nothing in his life ever has been. It’s not enough—he’s always gonna be looking over his shoulder—but… it’s good enough for now.

It’s all he’s got. And if he’s gonna try his hand at this living thing... well, he guesses he’ll take it.

“Better than nothing,” he mutters.

The look on Castiel’s face approaches something like crestfallen, and for a moment he reminds Dean so much of Sam that everything hurts even more.

“Cas,” he says, holding Castiel’s gaze. “Thanks.”

Castiel nods, faintest of smiles toying at the edges of his mouth, and then disappears.

It takes all of about five seconds for Dean’s good feeling to wear off, reality hitting him completely in the absence of Castiel’s presence.

Maybe Jax is safe for now. Maybe they both are, to the extent that they can be. Cas doesn’t judge him for what was between him and Sam. But what about Jax?

Shit. There’s no fucking way _anyone_ human is prepared to deal with that.

He’s exhausted. The mass exorcism, the fighting, all of it is rising against him, muddying his thoughts, sending him spiraling.

He can’t deal with this tonight, guesses Jax can’t either, from the lack of a knock on his door.

He tries not to let himself think about how Jax might never be able to deal with it.

Dammit.

He pushes up from the bed and stalks to the bathroom.

Once he’s inside the confines of the plain white tiled room, he strips off his clothes, wincing against the feel of blood sticking to skin even through the thickness of his jeans. They’re never going to come clean. The stains will always be there.

He turns on the water and steps under the spray, lets the shower rinse him clean. He puts soap to the washcloth and scrubs away the dried blood on his skin, so much of it that it leaves the washcloth stained pink. When it’s done, he shuts off the water and towels off. 

He pads to the bed still damp and pulls the covers across him, welcoming sleep.

 

*

 

He wakes in the morning to the calamity of realization, thoughts jangling inside his head like keys inside a dryer.

It’s early, purple light barely breaching the blinds to lighten the room. Throughout the clubhouse, there’s nothing except stillness.

He should let it go, he thinks, trying to ease back against the pillow, forearm slung across his head. There’s no fixing this. 

He tries to fall back asleep, watching the light in the room change from purple into the golden of morning sun.

 

*

 

He finally pulls from the bed, dressing slowly, Colt tucked in with familiarity.

The steps to Jax’s room at the end of the hall feel like one of the longest distances he’s ever traveled. He stops in front of the door, taking a deep breath before he half leans against the door, knocking lightly with the knuckles of one hand.

“Come in.”

Jax is sitting on the edge of the bed, sheets pulled across his lap, elbows to his knees, hands clasped together, blond hair catching morning sun. He doesn’t even glance in Dean’s direction, which tells Dean two things. One, Jax already knows it’s him. Two, Jax can’t stand to look at him.

Dean should just leave now. Because, really, what the fuck can he say?

Nothing that’s going to make things right. But hell, it’s already so fucked, what’s a little more fuckery? At least it’ll be the truth. At least he can do this clean. Dean owes Jax that much—at least that much, after everything they’ve been through.

Still, it takes him a long few moments to find the words. When they come, they come all at once, as honest as he’s ever been in his life. More honest than he wishes they were. And still, somehow, it feels good to say it, for once, finally.

“Me and Sam… We were always together. Every second, every day, our whole lives. There wasn’t… anybody else who was there. No one else who… got the life we were living. No one else we could talk to. When it happened… it felt like. It felt right.” Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Wrong as it was, it felt right. It felt like the rest. And I don’t regret it. Won’t ever regret it.”

It’s the truth, and it doesn’t come easy. He guesses it never does.

He waits for a long breathless, moment, watching the way Jax doesn’t move. It’s not like Dean expected him to, not after that, but shit, at least he said it. 

Jax is beautiful, golden light catching across the tint of his California tan, Sons of Anarchy tattoo inked across his back, head tilted downward in thought, and Dean thinks he should leave it just like this. Take this memory and run with it, because as much as it hurts, it’s better than anything Jax is going to say in return.

He’s done. He told the truth. It’s time to move on.

He turns, boot heels clomping against the wooden floor as he walks away.

He can’t leave Charming. But he’ll keep his distance from the club while he watches out for threats. He’ll keep contact to a minimum of information exchange and emergencies. He’ll need to call Bobby, let him know how things have changed, and find a new place to stay. These are the things he can _do_ , and everything else… well, he’ll deal with that when he can.

Jax’s answer is clear. He needs to put whatever he’s feeling right now behind him.

The hand on his shoulder surprises him, startles him so badly that he almost turns around with a right hook before he sees Jax, dressed in a pair of hastily pulled on jeans and nothing else.

“You think I don’t get it?” Jax asks, eyes glittering fiercely, stepping into his space. “I was inside your fucking head, Dean. You and Sam…. I think it’s fucked, yeah, but I was there. I get it. That’s not what this is about.”

The words hit Dean sideways, unexpected and out of place, and if it isn’t about him and Sam, then…

“Crowley. The deal you made with him.” Jax shakes his head, mouth pulling tight. “If that’s why you’re sticking around… then get the fuck out, right now.”

Dean isn’t sure stunned is a strong enough word for what he’s feeling right now.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Jax tells him. 

That’s what this is about?

Dean feels fire rise up inside him as breaks from Jax’s grip, hands meeting Jax’s chest and shoving him backward down the hallway.

“You shit stupid motherfucker,” Dean hisses, stepping forward, palms hitting Jax squarely in the chest again. 

“Too stupid to live,” Dean growls, stepping forward and grabbing Jax by the shoulders, twisting them both inside Jax’s room and throwing Jax halfway across it. He kicks the door shut and closes the distance between them before Jax even regains his balance, grabbing and shoving Jax against the wall, hands gripping him by the shoulders.

“You think I made that deal so I could fucking babysit?” he demands, shoving his face into Jax’s. “Then you don’t understand _shit_. You know how many problems it would solve if I’d just let Crowley kill your stupid, sorry ass?”

“Yeah. I do.” Jax brings his arms up between Dean’s, throwing Dean’s arms aside and pushing off the wall, stepping up meet him. “I also know you weren’t planning on sticking around before. So if that’s why you’re staying, then fucking leave.” Jax’s expression is complete conviction, his voice steady as he stares Dean down. “Your job was taking care of Sam. Protecting _Sam_. Not me.”

The words hit Dean like a punch to the face, stunning him all over again. “You think this is about _Sam_?” 

“Same situation all over again,” Jax says, lifting one shoulder in a tight shrug. “You made a deal that makes it so you _have_ stick around to protect me. You told me, when this was over, you were leaving.”

Dean huffs out a breath, amazed. “You think I made that deal because… I somehow think you’re Sam?”

“You saying you didn’t?” Jax asks, dead serious. “If I was taller, had dark hair and we were blood related--”

Dean’s fist crashes into Jax’s face before he even know he means to do it.

Jax staggers back a couple of steps, hand rising to wipe blood from his lips. 

“Don’t,” Dean warns him, voice dark and full of barely restrained violence. “Not ever.”

Jax looks down at the crimson smeared across the back of his hand before he looks back at Dean. He nods once, then, agreeing silently that he probably deserved that. 

“Then why?” Jax demands, eyes still intensely serious.

Dean grinds his teeth together, jaw shifting out to one side as he turns in the same direction. Fuck this.

“Motherfucker,” Jax mutters, grabbing him by the shoulder. “I asked you a question.”

Dean spins back around, throwing Jax’s arm from him, forearm thrust against Jax’s chest, shoving him back against the wall, pinning him across bottom of his throat.

“Because I don’t run out on people I care about, asshole,” Dean snarls, fractions of an inch from Jax’s face. “That ever fucking occur to you? That maybe I was gonna stick around, anyway?”

Jax looks at him for a moment, surprised, and then Dean can feel the tension in him slacken. Jax shakes his head, barest, ironic smile curving his mouth, faint smudge of crimson across his bottom lip. “Hell… my life plan is right out of the Sid and Nancy handbook. I'm used to shit movin' in the other direction.”

Dean can feel his own anger ebb with surprise, grip on Jax loosening as the words sink in. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Dean lets go of him, turning away, uncomfortable with the moment. “Cas says we’re safe for now, anyway. No big bad’s lining up to take Bezaliel’s place.”

“You believe him?” Jax asks, and Dean understands that he’s questioning Dean’s belief, not Castiel’s word.

Dean presses his lips together, lifts his chin and takes in a breath. He’s not used to shit working out, either, but… “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Are we good?” Dean asks after a moment.

Jax moves up behind him, hands settling on Dean’s hips. Jax turns him around slowly, looking him in the eye as he nods. 

“Yeah. We’re good.”

Dean believes him. He doesn’t get how it’s possible, but he believes it.

“So,” Jax says, craning his neck, looking at Dean with a lop-sided smirk. “You still want skulls on the curtains?”

“I was thinking maybe roses, since you love ‘em so much,” Dean shoots back.

Jax laughs, and for a moment, Dean’s just… so goddamned grateful.

“Such a romantic,” Jax grins.

“Shut up,” he growls as he pulls Jax in, mouth meeting his.

 

\-----

 

Jax feels Dean kiss down into him, tongue a wild swirl around his, callused hands tugging him toward the bed and tugging away his jeans.

He’s not used to shit ever working out. But Dean is different than anyone else he’s ever known. The way he moves, the way he kisses Jax, hands caressing bare skin, teasing against the nerves, making him hiss and twist. Mouth hot, searing against him, trailing down his throat like fire, hands everywhere, and all he wants is Dean inside him, Dean riding his cock, whichever, it doesn’t matter.

Hips rocking against Dean’s stomach, dick skidding along Dean’s muscles, pre-come barely slicking the way. “Yeah, come on.”

Dean growls, biting down hard into the skin of Jax’s chest. Tongue swirling out, circling Jax’s nipple, lips and teeth tugging, teasing, and fuck, it’s so good, the way Dean feels against him. Body sliding lower against Jax’s, tongue tracing a trail all the way down, hands pushing his thighs up and apart, and he rocks up into the motion, biting down against his lower lip when he feels Dean’s tongue swirl lower, pushing inside, teasing him open.

Jax hisses in a breath, pushing into the slick, sleek feel of muscle inside him, flexing and curling, driving him right to edge. Cock twitching against his belly, pulsing out a thick trickle of pre-come, hands gripping Dean’s head, palms fitting to his skull, dragging him in deeper.

“Asshole,” he hisses.

Dean huffs out a laugh Jax can feel inside him, tongue sliding out slow, circling the rim. Teasing upward, over the fullness of Jax’s balls, up alongside the length of Jax’s cock.

Dean edges to the left, licking up the line of Jax’s hipbone, reaching for the drawer next to them, hand smoothing down the length of his cock with a condom, other hand following behind with lube, and then he settles his weight between Jax’s legs, wet, blunt cockhead pushing against him, thrusting inside him, spreading him wide. Jax wraps his arms around Dean, lifting his hips as Dean begins to move, meeting him halfway on the next thrust.

Dean arching against him, muscles rippling, fucking up into him, mouth sealed against his. So good, the way he moves, hips bucking, swaying and hitting every sweet spot inside Jax on the way down.

“Fuck yeah,” he gasps, rocking up into Dean. 

“God, love it, don’t you?” Dean demands.

“Almost… as much… as you do… when I’m fucking you…” Jax breathes back.

Dean huffs out a laugh, teeth closing around Jax’s jaw, drilling down into him so hard that Jax’s teeth snap together, spine arching, stiffening to take Dean deeper, and fuck, he feels so good. 

Sweating out against the sheets, Dean fucking into him, mouth devouring his, their hips locked in a rocking rhythm of give and take, muscles coiling into each other against the bed, fingers gripping the round, muscular curve of Dean’s ass, pulling him in. Teeth tearing at his lower lip, Dean’s hips shuddering, sideways twist that leaves him breathless, fucking into him relentlessly. The way Dean feels, body against him, inside him, and yeah, he loves it. 

Dean’s hand closes around his cock, fingers pulling up the curve, and he bites out a curse, pool of heat sharpening in his belly, shooting from his cock as he comes, spurting hot and wet across Dean’s stomach. 

“God damn, feel so good,” Dean hisses out, hips corkscrewing into Jax, sensation sending another deeper, burst of pleasure through Jax, head tipping back against the pillows, fucking into Dean’s hand on pure instinct. 

Dean tenses, stiffening as he bites down against Jax’s chin, cock pulsing inside him as he comes, both of them bucking and shuddering their way through it, each motion setting off intense ripples of pleasure that keep them moving until they’re both lying spent against the bed, shivering and still clinging to each other.

They lie there for a while, sweat slowly drying on their skin, heartbeats slowing to normal, until Jax turns his face, lips pressing a kiss against Dean’s throat, one hand patting him on the ass. “Not getting any lighter.”

“Fucker,” Dean groans, pulling out gingerly before he rolls off Jax onto his side.

Dean rolls the condom off and tosses it into the trash, but other than that, he doesn’t move. Jax slides an arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and Dean makes some kind of grumbling, half-muttered protest that both of them know doesn’t mean anything.

“Shut up,” Jax smirks, leaning to kiss him.

When he pulls back, the look in Dean’s eyes makes him pause. 

Things are different between them now. There’s nothing hanging over them, no tension between them. Dean’s always gonna be an intense motherfucker—and Jax’d be lying if he said it wasn’t one of the things he loves about Dean—but looking at him now, Jax can see the sadness, the weight Dean always carries around with him lifted, just a little. 

Jax lifts his chin and settles it against the crown of Dean’s head. Dean curled comfortably against him, pressed skin to skin, and he feels good there. Feels right. 

Yeah. Jax’ll take this any way it comes at him.

 

\-----

 

Lying there beside Jax in the morning sunlight, feeling it warm his skin, feeling Jax against him, Dean feels more comfortable than he has in a long time. Peaceful. He knows this whole thing probably isn’t over, that it’s more likely than not to blow up in their faces again one day. But for now, they’re as safe as they can be. Dean could use the rest.

They still have to tell Gemma what happened, and Jax’ll have to figure out how much he wants to tell the club, but Dean figures they can handle that, after everything else they’ve been through. Jax knows the truth--all the parts that matter, and he still wants Dean here. That’s good enough for him. Better than good enough.

“You hungry?” Jax asks, and Dean can hear the rumble of his voice through his chest.

“Yeah,” Dean says, not moving an inch.

“So what? Now you’re a cuddle whore?” Jax asks, and Dean can hear the grin in his voice.

Dean reaches up, fingers closing around his shirt lying beside the pillow, and tosses it at Jax’s face. 

Jax tears it away, laughing, and half sits up, turning, tackling Dean against the bed.

“Sap,” Jax accuses, pinning him.

“Fuck you,” Dean smirks, and kisses him.

 

 

FINIS

  
  



End file.
